


Year Zero

by sudapigrafool



Category: 30 Seconds to Mars
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:25:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 108,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1229788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sudapigrafool/pseuds/sudapigrafool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part One "Future Imperfect" (chap. 1-4); Part Two "R-evolve" (chap. 5-9); Part Three "Wreckage of the Past" (10-12); Part Four "Hunters and Gatherers" (13-17); Part Five "Perfect Denial" (18-21); Part Six "Quiet Desperation"<br/>Authorship: Polydeuces<br/>Summary: A new tour kicks off in San Francisco, late spring of 2007. The guys don’t get very far before it’s already the end of what was just beginning. Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.<br/>These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

\--------- * --------- * ---------  
_"Under the burning sun_  
_I take a look around,_  
_imagine if this all came down..."_  
\--------- * --------- * ---------

 

003/00

Alpha

It’s been three days since it all came down. Three days since the explosion at the Perry Nuclear Power Plant in Cleveland. Since the toxic gas release at LAX. Since they closed the ports from Astoria, Oregon to San Francisco to as far south as Ensenada. Three days since we heard the first panicked reports of opportunistic North Korean missiles and American reprisals. It’s almost too much to take in -- three days since they declared a national state of emergency.

And god knows what else. It’s been two days since we’ve heard anything at all from FEMA. Since they issued their initial bulletin, there’s been nothing. Yesterday we heard a rumor that overnight the Chicago River had turned into a putrid sewer floating with dead fish; that the Great Lakes were infected with a biotoxin, and that thousands had died after drinking ordinary tap water. Maybe hundreds of thousands. And now, a virulent epidemic was sweeping across the Midwest.

How much of it is true? Nobody really knows. News trickles in to us by word of mouth, disjointed fragments mostly, and rumors driven by hysteria. Sometimes the power is off and sometimes it’s on. Once in a while the cell phones are working. Then, there are the times when they jingle out their insanely chirpy ring tones for no reason. Like phantom noises from a former life going bump in the night. We hear the east coast is "gone." And so, others say, is Washington state. Meaning to nuclear weapons, I suppose, but no one claims to know exactly whose. There are plenty of theories, though.

We learned some of these details when we started talking among ourselves about trying to head north, but the borders are closed, or so we were informed by a few aimless wanderers trying to find their way south. They were our guests last night. Their party consisted of a family of five taking their first California vacation (ha ha!), and two traveling sales reps who had met up at the last interstate off ramp. A common feeling of desperation had helped them decide to throw in their lots together. Refugees of the road have become our primary, practically our only, source of information. The state borders were what they were referring to. You couldn’t go north, and you couldn’t even get from Sacramento to Carson City, Nevada going east. So, having no other choice, they’d turned around and headed south.

We knew about I-80 being shut down outside of Sacramento because on that first night, we were headed out that way to our next gig at the Saltair in Utah. We’d just finished performing the kick-off concert of our new tour, had left San Francisco, and only been on the road a little over an hour when we came up on a road block. In fact, don’t think we’d made it much farther than Fairfield and we had to turn around and go back. Cody, our driver, knew from the radio there had been some sort of disaster, and _ALL_ the major highways were being closed off. So, he recommended finding a motel and taking some rooms for the night, not knowing at that point how long the emergency would last. One thing about life on a tour bus -- it teaches you how to conserve water and minimize waste until you’re sure about when you’re going to be able to make the next dump station.

I tried to call ahead to the venue people in Salt Lake City and warn them about the delay, but I couldn’t get a connection. So, I tried to get a hold of a Virgin rep who was meeting us there, same problem. At the time, I was cursing the technology, but a small warning voice had already started sounding nervously in my head. We finally found a little bitty motel called The Swallows with its vacancy light on, quite a ways off the main road in the town of Gabriel Crossing. A clerk behind the well-worn desk in the tiny, tired looking office was glued to CNN on a television screen which she told us kept winking in and out. She didn’t have many rooms to spare, so we crammed ourselves into the last three available. Fifteen guys in three rooms, picture it. We’d been traveling with a few extra production people who’d been involved in the concert at the Warfield Theatre. It had been amazing, by the way --- an absolute mob scene on stage for the finale. Anyway, Aaron and the two guys who were his assistants had been following us in his Durango, hoping to get back to their capital city homes that night, so we were a few more than normal.

Shannon presumed to assign all four band members to the same room, which was not a presumption I would have made, but I was busy trying to get more information about exactly what the fuck had happened when he took this decision upon himself. To our four, he added Nate, the new merch guy; a kid who had told us, yes, he was eighteen and therefore able to work in all 48 states without needing a signed work permit from his parents. However, only today Shannon had figured out, Nate’s assertion was a few months shy of being the absolute truth, and I had not had time yet to confront him with our discovery.

Meanwhile, Cody went to park our bus in the back lot. Which he did, then first thing the next morning he must have thought better of it, and moved it. Bless him. He drove it down an old dirt lane he’d spied the night before, and hid it in some farmer’s dilapidated barn. And paid the guy who owned the place not to notice. I never asked Cody what he used for payment, but I understood later there was a robbery at the mom-and-pop pharmacy around the corner that night. Someone did a damn good job of cleaning the place out, all except the cash drawer. An oversight which would seem ludicrous to any normal person who has never had to function in a barter-based economy -- like, say, in a prison -- and still abided by their own arcane code of morality.

I’ve generally found it’s best not to ask too many questions about the background of a man like Cody, but I’ll say this. While the locals were all about looting the liquor store and making off with wide-screen TVs, we now have probably one of the largest stashes of antibiotics, painkillers, and condoms in the county. Perhaps in several counties, because after this fruitful beginning, Cody and two of our roadies took a pick-up, that is, "borrowed" a pick-up truck that was parked out in the front lot, and went on a little spree to some neighboring towns. All on a prescient impulse of Cody’s that very first night. I am now fairly certain Cody thought he was already scenting the breakdown of society as the rest of the world knew it. And therefore, I commend him for his foresight and timely action. But those other two, I don’t know _what_ they were thinking at the time.

*Okay, some people might say Cody’s perspective on human drives and human social progress is monoptic, but I prefer to use the term focused. He’s accumulated years of life experience that, admittedly, has given him a fatalistic kind of philosophy, and although it chills me to think about the implications of his hoarding, I can’t pretend I haven’t already shared, in some small way, his apocalyptic vision of our imminent future on the planet.*

We tried watching television for a while, but the cable was out more than it was working. In front of our rooms on the narrow paved walkway before our doors, guests occasionally clustered to share similar tales of being stopped along some highway and being unable to go any farther. Already the legends of large-scale disaster were being spun. Inside our room, Tomo was pacing around trying to get a response on his cell phone. When one of his calls finally and almost unexpectedly did go through, he shut himself in the bathroom for a long time. For privacy. When he came out, everyone tried to act like they didn’t notice he’d been crying. The truth was we were all getting scared.

I can’t tell you the hour precisely when we decided staying up any longer would be a waste of energy, but it was very, very late. Matt flopped onto one of the beds, curling up next to Tomo, which was something else I never would have expected. They hadn’t been getting along all that well lately. I stripped to my shorts and got under the sheets and blankets on the other bed, while Shannon pushed Nate in between us. Nate’s feet were cold, and he turned his back to me nervously. Seventeen years old, I thought. Young enough to be Shannon’s son. With everything else going on, it never occurred to me the aura of my "celebrity" might have had something to do with Nate’s apparent reticence and anxiety, so I snuggled up around him heedless of that aspect of things, and reached across his body until my hand touched Shannon’s arm. Then, after what seemed like an interminably long night already, I drifted off almost immediately into one of my typically elusive and disjointed dreams.

\---------

005/00

(I would have gotten back to this yesterday, but Evie’s been sick.)

I woke up the next morning starving, which is not typical with me. In an intense situation, I usually become insensible to my own appetite; you can ask anybody, it’s true. The need for food doesn’t even register with me until I’m suffering from a low blood sugar emergency. Which can take days. Not so, our Matthew. Matt never met a life crisis that he did not feel could, at the very least, be improved upon with a little timely noshing. With some carefully considered deliberations over nachos. Therefore, I recommend one never attempt to light a fire under Matt’s fight or flight response without first determining whether or not he’s been fed.

He has the same attitude about sleep, too, so I was not surprised to find myself peering over Shannon’s recently vacated pillow to find him still sprawled in the next bed. Matt, generally, is a very moderated kind of guy. Nothing in excess. An aura of disorderly calm surrounds him no matter what, under every possible set of circumstances.

Behind me, I could hear Tomo and my brother scuffling and squabbling by the bathroom door, choking on whispered laughter. There is nothing like a puppy fight to work off an excess of accumulated stress. From what I caught of their conversation, it seemed they were taunting each other over a matter of clean and dirty underwear. Some subjects are best left short of details, so I won’t elaborate here.

Just under my nose, a pair of warm brown eyes were gazing up at me uncertainly. Sometime in the night, Nate had rolled over and settled into my over-protective arm. Now he was trying to wriggle out from under it, politely, and looking painfully embarrassed. Empathetically, I plumbed my memory, struggling to recall how homophobic I had been as a seventeen-year-old. Probably not very, by Nate’s standards. And listening to Shannon and Tomo in the background certainly wasn’t making things any easier for him, I’m sure.

"We’re not always like this," I murmured, and smiled in a way that I hoped was reassuring. "Well, no, that’s a lie," I amended, releasing him from my embrace. "We are, but you get used to it."

A few minutes later we were all up and dressed, and on our way out the door hunting for breakfast. A broken line of motel guests was picking its way across the street and congregating in front of a homely little diner with a peeling sign, "Mugs." I thought I could see Shannon’s eyes watering at the thought of a hot cup of coffee, but no one had come to open up that morning. So Cody, my guitar tech Jack, and some other guy I didn’t know yet started looking for a way to let themselves inside.

In the daylight, I counted twenty-eight modest units to our motel, plus living quarters for the owner, all demarcated by the much-patched blacktop parking precinct that surrounded it. Plus some unkempt gardens. At a rough guess I estimated there were about a hundred of us crammed into this humble space along with our vehicles, and none of us in possession of much more than the ordinary, meager provisions of the road. It was not a promising scenario if the blockades were going to remain in place for more than a day, and the local food and water supply ran out. I had not thought to check the TV that morning. Water in the shower had been hot and plentiful enough, though we could see the electricity had gone out sometime in the night, and then been restored. On the bedside table, the little LED clock display was blinking its ominous 12:00 at me when I woke. A stark, red warning of things to come.

Suddenly, my dark musings were interrupted by a vaguely familiar-sounding female voice, "Hey! Jared!" it called from somewhere fairly close by. I looked around. "Guys!" it called again.

A group of girls was running after me. As they got closer, I double checked to see if I recognized any of them, and a name popped into my head. Sammy. Oh, yeah. We’d met more than a few times after concerts. Had she been there last night? Echelon. One of the faithful. And she had three friends trailing along with her who looked vaguely familiar, too.

"Mike!" Shannon shouted back. Mikayla, I thought, that’s right, that’s the dark haired one… and who were the other two? "What are you doing here?" He was grinning like a fool. Uh-oh.

In gushes and fits, "Ohm’gawd! Ohm’gawd!’ they told the same road block story as everybody else, only they’d wandered longer and farther looking for a place to spend the night. The motel was already full when they’d arrived in the wee hours of the morning and stopped, having spotted our bus in the parking lot. In the dark. In the back. By the woods. (I swear, these kids all have something supernatural going on with their pineal glands that helps them to divine our whereabouts. True fact.) Too exhausted and low on gas to go any farther, they’d slept in their car.

Lying in wait. *snort*

Okay, that’s not fair. Under the circumstance, I’m sure _any_ familiar face would have been a very, very welcome sight indeed. It’s just that my face is a little more familiar than most, and I let that fact infect my attitude sometimes, on occasion.

Tomo knew all four of them by name and went around hugging each one of them in turn. Truthfully, it was obvious how scared they had been up until that moment.

"You guys need to, uh, use a bathroom?" Tomo inquired earnestly, always the practical one. He’s also the one with a sister. "If you want to get cleaned up? You know, get a shower, or whatever? You can use our room." Big brother takes charge. That’s the kind of thing about Tomo that always makes me smile, because in reality, he’s the baby brother in our band family. But it’s a huge mistake to expect him to act that way.

I was watching him lead his little ducklings back across the street when the diner’s security alarm began blaring. They were in. Some children standing near us jumped up and down, squealing with delight and covering their ears. To them, this was all still a big adventure. Jack’s face beamed out at us from behind the glass doors. The decibel level of that whooping siren must have been nearly deafening inside. With a flourish, he produced a key and thrust it into the lock, swinging the door wide open.

He was hollering, "Ladies and gentlemen!!…" something… something, over the clamor and making a sweeping bow. A red light was strobing overhead and people began pouring through the open doorway. Miraculously, at that precise moment, Cody figured out how to cut power to the alarm.

You might have expected a food riot to take place once we got inside, but Jack had nonchalantly posted himself in the entryway to the kitchen.

"What do you want to start with?" he asked, and turned to me. "The eggs and stuff? I think we should use all the perishables first."

"Right," I agreed with him, brain beginning to click, "even if it means tossed salad with breakfast. Shannon?" I scanned the crowd of faces looking for my brother, who turned out to be right at my shoulder. "Find out which of these people know their way around a commercial kitchen. And somebody go get Tomo back here, now."

Chef, or no chef, today he was gonna be our short-order cook.

It wasn’t the smoothest operation you’ve ever seen, but we got through it. Nate demonstrated a pair of healthy appetites, first by wolfing down a champion-size breakfast, and then by graciously offering to take food back to the motel for the bathing beauties in our room. And one of the women who’d agreed to play waitress took plates to the motel manager and her kids, because they were stuck there behind the desk keeping an anxious vigil over the office and hoping the landline phones would come back on. No one went away hungry. Later, someone collected up whatever people felt was a fair price for their meal, and we hid the money for the owner. I can proudly say we may have broken in and disabled the alarm, but no one touched the cash register. Then, we locked up the place as best we could, and took a key with us, just in case we'd end up needing it later.

After that, Shannon surprised me by rattling off a pretty good mental inventory of what was left in the freezer, what kind of stuff there was that needed refrigeration -- like milk for the kids -- and how many cases of different kinds of canned and dry goods there were in the back room. And here I thought he’d spent all his time looking for chances to goose Tomo whenever _sous chef’s_ hands got too full to strike back.

Word came there was a single phone line working in the office, so Shannon sprinted off to see if he could get in contact with our mom. I was headed over to our room when Sammy gamboled out the door and past me wearing a suspiciously familiar looking pair of jeans, and one of Tomo’s favorite shirts. What the…? Pushing my way inside, I greeted my guitarist’s sheepish smile with a raised eyebrow.

"I told them they could use our shampoo and deodorant and stuff,…" he mumbled. "To help themselves to whatever they needed."

"Ah."

So, while we were gone, apparently that’s exactly what they’d done. I cringed to think of what else they must have found in our bags, in my bags, which had obviously been rummaged through. The sounds of continuous giggling and squealing effervesced through the bathroom door. I chalked up my razor for a lost cause, it’d be like committing suicide by a thousand cuts if I ever tried to use it on my face again, and went back outside.

There were a couple of news updates. Some of our fellow travelers, who were anxious to be back on the road, had gone into town to get gas and ask questions. The first tale they returned to us with was that the gas station owners were brandishing guns at the pumps. And the second was that the roads, by all accounts, were still blockaded, so except for some routes along back, back roads (the authorities couldn’t be everywhere), you weren’t going to get very far no matter which way you went. Oh, the other thing was that Sam and Mike had enlisted the aid of the motel manager to get the coin-operated guest laundry going without the bother of coins. Their clothes were in the machines, that’s why they were dressed in ours.

Like it or not, it looked like we were going to be stuck here for at least another day. Before the phone went out again, I hoped Shannon would have a chance to call someone on our management team, or with Virgin, or at the venue in Utah to let them know what the hell had become of us.

Somewhere in my consciousness, at a level a little deeper down, I was hoping there was still somebody, anybody, left to call.

\--stop--


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One "Future Imperfect"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* The new tour is already history, even if that reality hasn’t quite had a chance to sink in yet.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.

 

_\--------- * --------- * ---------_   
_"Under the burning sun_   
_I take a look around,_   
_imagine if this all came down…"_   
_\--------- * --------- * ---------_

　

006/00

Alpha

I started to write about Evie yesterday and ended up writing about a lot of other things instead. Which is okay. The assignment I set for myself was to write and write until I was finally clear. You wake up every morning and there are a dozen new things to worry about and to take care of, and whatever was happening yesterday is still only half dealt with… And sometimes the concerns you went to bed with have disappeared over night, literally, while you were sleeping. Or not sleeping. That’s how fast things are changing.

But I would like for there to be a record of the early days, the time period right after the Crisis, just in case -- you know -- someone should ever want to read about it at some point in the future. This is what it was like, the night the exponential growth of technology exploded like a supernova.

We still don’t know much of anything about what really happened for certain. Which is ridiculous when you think about it, but I will tell you this. Six days in, it’s amazing how quickly that old reality has begun to slip away. And also in what ways it has not. We’ve gone from the information age to a new dark age in the twinkling of an eye. A few nights ago in New York, they were watching uploaded fan videos of us performing at the Warfield in San Francisco, and that’s before the concert was even over. Today, you can hardly see beyond the boundary stones of your own little hamlet.

I’m going to try to pick up where I left off yesterday, and write a few words about some of our fellow wayfarers on this communal descent through the rings of hell.

Raymond turned out to be the owner of the pick-up Cody had "borrowed" from the front parking lot on our first night’s stay here at The Swallows. Rather than being pissed off like you might expect, Ray had been tolerantly amused about the whole thing, and now Cody has a new best friend. After all, he’d brought the truck back safe and sound, right? And with a full tank of gas.

My own first encounter with Ray occurred, amiably enough, the next day over a worn formica table top.

"So," Ray began, shifting his thick, middle-aged bulk easily on the vinyl seat of the booth we were sharing, "do all your girl fans take boy names? Like, uh -- Sam and Mike?"

"No."

Ray and I were back in the little diner again for lunch. The spoon stirring his coffee clinked against the side of his mug aimlessly as he mulled over the single, mysterious syllable I’d uttered in my most unequivocal tone. He was trying to be polite, but obviously, I was more of an enigma than Ray had ever encountered before in his life.

"M'kay," he finally announced, momentarily satisfied. "Just wondered."

Right about then, Tomo wandered over and settled into the spot next to me with a plate of sweet potato fries and a Coke.

"Who’s cooking?" I asked, helping myself to one of the fries. Soft on the inside, crispy and greasy on the outside. A typical American dietary staple. They weren’t bad, though.

Tomo paused before he answered, letting his eyes tell me a little inside joke.

"Matt." He stopped before adding, "and your brother."

An idea so absurd I had no pictures. Well, I take that back; we all have at least one picture, don’t we? And that was just wrong. Then, now, or ever.

So far, I haven’t said much about Matt’s reaction to all of this. As I’ve explained already, Matt can be rather stoic under pressure. He has a good sense of humor most of the time, particularly about himself, and he shares pretty easily with the people he’s close to. I’d even say he talks a lot given a motive and the opportunity. He’ll rag Shannon around relentlessly, and Shannon will give it right back to him until he runs out of words to express himself with. Then, Matt has to put up with my brother’s more emotional, non-verbal kind of defense. Fortunately, Matt’s a big-hearted guy who’ll pretend to let Shannon wrestle him into submission. You can tell Matt survived a childhood surrounded by lots of big and little brothers of his own, and that living with the three of us now presents him with nothing new.

So, if I describe Matt’s behaviour for those first couple of days, when everything started to go to hell, as ‘clingy’, that’s not quite the word I’m looking for. That wouldn’t be the right characterization, exactly. But he did stick pretty close, and during that time one of the few ways I could tell how upset Matt really was came from watching him follow Shannon around everywhere like his tall, silent shadow.

Then, after the first 48 hours had passed, and the interminable uncertainty began to set in, he started going off to be by himself a lot more.

We’d been trying to get information -- any information -- we could by internet, cell phone, radio, whatever, but saying communications, such as they still existed, were completely overwhelmed by that time would be an understatement. Fifteen hours after we had come across those first ominous roadblocks, FEMA finally issued its one and only emergency bulletin advising the public to take immediate shelter and prohibiting most forms of personal travel. Well, that was definitely going to impede our progress. We and the rest of the Interstate Nation’s vagabond citizenry gathered outside under the eaves of our little motel to hide our mounting fears under a lot of whining and complaining. The government’s edict was supposed to help facilitate any officially ordered evacuations that needed to take place, and keep the roads open. But it was weird, if you ask me. And that’s the last we’ve ever heard from FEMA to date. Thank you very much.

Now, I’m trying to remember. I don’t know… I’m not sure, but looking back, I think when Matt finally got through to Libby on his phone that night, to the best of my knowledge, that was the last time he ever spoke to her…

Sarah is the motel manager, not the owner like I had first assumed. The owner is god-knows where, and Sarah says he never spends much time here in Gabriel Crossing anyway; he’s from somewhere "up north" as she puts it. She’s twenty-nine, and a single parent of two kids under the age of five. Mm-m-m, graced with a cool, green-eyed stare, and now that I’ve taken the time to notice, long, smooth-skinned legs.

Earlier that day, Shannon had queued up in the tiny office along with a lengthy line of other motel guests anxiously waiting for the chance to use the one and only functioning phone line. In this potentially volatile situation Sarah, a formidable figure of maternal authority, imposed a single, simple rule. After you got a call through, you had to relinquish the phone to the next person in line behind you. Now, not everyone would get through to the first person they called, and that was okay, you could try someone else. But once you did get through, if you wanted to make another call you had to take your place at the back of the line again. She was trying to be fair to everyone. You never knew when the phone might suddenly go out. The simple ethic of this plan, plus Sarah’s hawkeyed vigilance, sweetened with a good deal of soothing and cajoling, worked like a charm on her frazzled charges.

Much as I like to think of myself as a capable leader, when overwhelmed by a crisis, it seems there is nothing people want more than to have mommy take charge.

In fact, when he got his turn on the phone, that’s exactly who Shannon had tried to call first. Mom. After punching in the number, however, he’d gotten nothing but dead air. Later, he intercepted me outside with some good news, though; he’d talked to our grandmother.

"How is she?" I asked instantly. I was just coming back from checking on the laundry maids. For the first time since this whole thing began, my brother’s face looked drawn and uneasy.

"Alright, I guess. A little confused and upset. They evacuated a lot of people, so she was in a recreation hall at some retirement community when I talked to her. She had her cell phone and it was still working, thank God. Go figure."

"Yeah? Well, I guess that’s good. At least she’s not alone." I stopped speaking and watched him carefully, because I’d noticed he hadn’t once met my eyes since we started talking.

"Jay, she hasn’t heard from Mom either." He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and shuffled his feet restlessly. I could feel his need to do something chaffing against our situation, and his irritable helplessness over there being absolutely nothing he could do.

"Well, we can try again later."

"Yeah." The word came out of him in a rough, determined whisper.

It was his gruffness, actually, that got to me. Striking at me somewhere in the deepest part of my heart. I found myself clutching him against my chest in a fierce bear hug, and he was squeezing me back for all he was worth. Don’t know how long we stood there like that on the crumbling blacktop, locked together, both feeling cold and exposed. Neither one of us willing to admit to crying, we’d hid our faces against each other’s shoulders with our eyes squinted shut and tearing uncontrollably, huddled together under the indifferent glare of that brilliant, southern California sun.

\---------

Evie, Sam, Mike and Jenna. Jenna was the one whose name I couldn’t remember, and later I felt bad, because eventually I recalled she was the one who had given us those hand drawn portraits of the four of us we still had on the bus.

Shortly after midday, we noticed some people who’d set out at dawn trying to find a way home were starting to straggle back in frustration. Most of the roads were still blocked. Their plans had been thwarted at every turn. I went down to the office myself sometime late in the afternoon to try my luck on the phone; to see if there was anyone still minding the store at Virgin, or the Saltair, or the offices of our management back in LA. By then the line of people waiting was gone and I pretty much had the thing to myself. The first time I tried LA, I got this recorded voice telling me "all circuits are busy." Really, and just how many circuits is that, I wondered. What, exactly, is left?

Over the next couple of days, what we would hear about LA would stagger us, but at the time we still didn’t know. Had no idea that there had been multiple toxic gas releases in downtown buildings, not just at LAX. And most unimaginable of all, although apparently true, a dirty bomb had been detonated in South Park. We heard about that from a guy in the National Guard who came after... well, I’ll get to that in a minute. I’m getting ahead of myself. A dirty bomb is not a nuclear device precisely, but an ordinary explosive packed with radioactive waste material, which had spread itself all over the place, carried by the prevailing winds. It turned a sizeable part of the city into a dead zone.

While I was hunched over the desk, poking at the phone’s tired little keypad, I listened in on a conversation Sarah was having with a young family who'd left early that morning, but had just come wandering back, exhausted, anxious and hoping to find their room was still available. Staring down behind the counter, I spied Sarah’s unprofessionally bare feet secreted against the kickboard where they were safely hidden from public view. Two delicate white ankles and her little painted toes curling into the carpet. The hell with record company executives, I found myself thinking. Concerns a lot closer to home were beginning to compete aggressively with my other worldly ambitions. Sarah was nodding patiently and listening to the other young mother fret about running out of formula and disposable diapers for her six-month-old. I let their dialog drift over my head for a while as my eyes slid upward following the curves of Sarah’s anatomy.

Along their way back-tracking to Gabriel Crossing, that other little mom was saying, they’d tried shopping around, but the store shelves had emptied fast.

"You know what?" Sarah smiled. "Toby’s just about out of his cloth diapers, so I’m sure we can spare some of his. That is, if you don’t mind pins and pull-ons."

"Oh-h…" the woman replied uncertainly.

"Don’t worry it’s not as much fuss as it sounds."

Once she’d handed them their old room key, and they'd gone, I turned to Sarah and was about to speak when the sardonic gleam in her eye made me hesitate.

"I take it you and the rest of the team will be staying for another night," she drawled quietly.

"Yes." I replied, but before I could get out something clever as a follow up, she added, "You need an extra room for those girls of yours? Or is that something you plan to work around?"

I have a special smile I keep in reserve for situations like this. Something so practiced, it’s nearly automatic, and until that moment it had never failed me. Unfazed, I opened my mouth to answer her, and...

"I can’t believe you still use cloth diapers," a disembodied male voice called from a doorway at the back of the office. The one that lead to Sarah’s private living quarters. A child’s happy squeal preceded Tomo’s appearance there by about half a second. Dark-eyed and smirking at me, he leaned against the doorframe holding a bouncing, cooing toddler in his arms.

For an instant, I must have looked like a kid caught with his hand reaching for the cookie jar. I couldn’t cover my displeasure, or my unmasked intentions, fast enough for an old sibyl like Sarah not to notice. A less-than-subtle amusement was spreading itself across her demurely curving lips. She softened the effect by gently lowering her eyelids. At least she had the generosity not to stare me down directly.

"Just doing my little thing to save the planet," she murmured in Tomo’s direction. Given the present situation, the irony of her statement was not lost on us.

Without another word, she handed me a pair of room keys so I could get the girls settled in, and unsubtly packed me off with my swaggering guitarist trailing along behind me.

"What? I took some food over for the kids," Tomo shrugged on our way back across the parking lot. He sounded a bit too defensive to me. "It would have been criminal to feed children what Matt and Shannon were serving over at the diner." And, there was a telltale touch of wickedness in his small smile. I hadn’t fooled him either.

Damn, I must have been really obvious.

"I saw her first," I tried. Old gambit, but…

"The fuck you say!" Tomo started laughing.

"It’s true," I insisted. And added, "and you know the game. You shoulda said something sooner." I stopped walking in the middle of the lot, halfway to our rooms, and grinned back at him. "Anyway, I’m calling it now."

Tomo laughed some more, and swore at me some more, good-naturedly.

"Besides," I told him, "she’s too old for you." Now that really set him howling; generally, any remark I make concerning age appropriate relationships always does.

I didn’t let his hilarity bother me, though. I’d found my special smile again. "You know the rules." I purred pleasantly.

"No way."

"You touch her, you owe me," I stated serenely.

"Sh-h-httt!!!" He walked off snorting and laughing again, and waving his hand in my face.

It’s an old rule. An old, old rule, but if something like this was good enough for the Romans, I always figured it was good enough for the four of us. And over the years, it’s a rule that’s only been broken once.

He’s a fast learner, our Tomo.

I know, I know. I didn’t get around to talking about Evie yet, like I said I would, but I will.

Right now, it’s long after sunset, and tonight there’s a soft, red-gold glow in the sky far off to the south and east of us. We’ve had a dry spring and somewhere a wildfire is burning. I doubt if there is anyone left to organize and fight it, though, with so many other battles needing to be fought. I can’t smell smoke. So, unless the wind shifts it will probably blow the fire away from us, I suppose. I hope. I’m letting that thought lull me into a feeling of security.

It conjures up an image, though. My mind races, full of apocalyptic visions of the end times blazing away while everything we’ve built turns to ash. And of all the little humans fleeing before those raging flames, running for their lives. Sprinting and scrambling like animals. Panicked. Looking for a place to hide.

How long will we be safe here, really, before some other sort of conflagration engulfs us?

Everybody run now.

\--stop--


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One "Future Imperfect"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* It’s now Day Seven; looking back, Jared describes the events on their second day at The Swallows.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.

\--------- * --------- * ---------  
 _"Under the burning sun_  
 _I take a look around,_  
 _imagine_ _if this all came down…"_    
\--------- * --------- * ---------

 

007/00

Alpha

Who would have thought a great industrialized world power like the US of A would run out of toilet paper so quickly?

This is the sort of thing I wake up to nearly every morning. Sometimes I think we’ve been through so much in the last week these people can’t tell the difference between a disaster and an inconvenience anymore, they’re so reactive to everything that happens. Personally, I feel like, if this is the worst problem I have to deal with today, I’ll be very, very grateful. Improvise, I tell them. Now, no paper product is safe from the abuse of substitution. I hesitate to think what must be happening to the libraries at the universities. Note to self: find a better place to hide journal.

Where was I? Describing night number two.

The five of us retreated to our room kind of early that night. Tomo had already showered and crawled under the blankets, and was by my observation halfway to sleep when my perverse-minded brother leaped on him with the cheerful humor and erotic vigor of a Harpo Marx.

Instantly, Tomo was bellowing and laughing and kicking at him; it was debatable how much he was enjoying or hating it. Obviously, he and Shannon were going to share sheets, which left me with Matt for a bed buddy. And Nate again, who wasn’t going anywhere near those two hyperactive satyrs in the next bunk. He scrunched himself up against me with as much reserve as he could manage, Matt was hogging all the mattress on his other side. So that's how I fell asleep with the scent of Nate’s clean, damp hair in my nostrils. The smell of plain soap, like a child before you put him to bed. It brought back all kinds of bittersweet memories of sharing a room and a bed with Shannon when we were just kids ourselves.

The next morning Tomo was up before any of us, pounding on the door to the next room and asking for Jack. Then together they headed off across the street to open up the diner. No wonder he’d gone to bed early. Tomo’s a pretty good guy about just digging in and doing whatever needs to be done.

Breakfast that morning brought us face to face with the first of our shortages. After preparing a meal fit for lumberjacks -- lots of steak and eggs, but short on toast and cocoa puffs -- Tomo announced it was time to go "shopping." For Cody, that means one thing; as for the rest of us…

We trooped over to Sarah’s little hall of audience in the motel office to ask the local oracle for suggestions.

"We’re out of milk," Tomo announced, voicing his chief concern, and leaning his elbows across the counter. "What are we going to do for the kids?"

Cow’s milk is not my favorite food staple. I think the world might be a lot better off without it, but considering our circumstances, I was not prepared to start a dietary revolution at the time. "I heard that girl saying yesterday the stores are all pretty well cleaned out," I added. "Got any ideas?"

"You boys don’t get out of the city much, do you?" Sarah taunted us with her slightly dismissive humor. "Contrary to popular superstition milk does not come directly from the grocery store. First, it comes from the farm. Cows make it."

"You know, I heard that once," Shannon blinked.

"Urban legend," Matt mumbled, shaking his head.

"Rest of the world may come to an end," she continued smoothly, "but a man who dairy farms for a living will tell you his herd still has to be milked twice a day."

"Cows know no eschatology." More wisdom from the Wachtermeister.

"So, where’s the closest cow?" I asked.

Sarah’s smile widened. "Let me talk to the neighbors. We can’t be the only ones in this predicament. And if those tank trucks aren’t showing up on schedule, somebody’s throwing an awful lot of good milk down the drain. Oh, we’ll need some clean, sturdy containers."

"You got it," Tomo replied.

Back at the diner, we scrubbed out every plastic gallon milk or juice jug, and all the institutional size wide-mouth jars we could find.

Sarah spent a little over an hour in town organizing a run to a small, local dairy farm. We hit up Ray for the use of his truck again -- that is, we _asked_ this time -- and joined the caravan. (For safety’s sake, traveling in groups and caravans has become second nature to us, but at the time we hadn’t begun to think about it that way yet.) Basically, we wanted Ray’s truck because it has a large bed and a cap. The better to cover up the contraband, or in this case, just to keep the sun off the milk.

It was an activity kind of like those field trips you took in grade school. There were geese in the yard honking and trying to harass us. Shannon stood by the fence, pointing and going, "Look, there’s the bull." Meanwhile, the guy who owned the place lectured Tomo and everybody else about the need to scald raw milk before serving it since it wasn’t pasteurized.

"You know we’re not going to be able to keep doing this," Shannon had said as we trudged back towards the pick-up. The unwieldy goods we’d come for sloshed around in our overloaded arms. "The days are gonna get hotter, the refrigeration’s gonna give out…" His boots smelled like manure from the barn.

"That’s if the gasoline it takes to get here doesn’t run out first," Matt added. I’d discovered he and Shannon were already keeping an eye on the fuel gauges. Little by little, something was happening to all of us, changing the way we were planning and thinking about things. Fortunately, we’d been able to make a deal with the farmer to buy the milk for cash money, but I wondered how much longer faith in paper currency was going to last.

"So, worst case scenario, guys. What do you suggest?" I asked, nudging my hip towards Tomo for him to fish the truck keys out of my pocket. "Getting our own cow?" I was trying to make a little joke, but if nobody else laughed at the images this thought provoked, I was going to be very disappointed.

"I think when the babies start coming the moms are just going to have to do the natural thing. No choice," Tomo said to no one in particular, flipping down the tailgate.

"The _babies_ , Tomo?" I grinned delightedly and, I admit, wolfishly since I had him cornered. "Ah, is there something you need to share with the rest of us?"

"Ass," Tomo grumbled, shoving two jugs in the back and struggling to squelch his smile.

"Because this is one of life’s little secrets that I’ve always been trying to figure out. Where _do_ babies come from?"

Behind me, I heard Matt let loose his throaty chuckle.

"… so if you know something, please, share with the class."

Feigning testiness, Tomo turned on my brother Shannon. "How’d you let him grow up so ignorant?" he demanded, grabbing a leaky container from him.

"I told him! I’ve told him a couple of times!" Shannon protested wiping his wet hands on his pant legs, his eyes twinkling at me. "Jared, you remember, birds? Bees?..." He couldn’t stop himself from snickering at my expense.

"Oh, you mean your junior high biology project!" I exclaimed, making Shannon's junior high school educational experience sound precisely like the euphemism it was.  

"Damn straight," my brother was laughing, when, "Have you tried showing him pictures?" Tomo snorted in exasperation.

Shannon paused for a long moment, then looked up at our guitarist with that vacant expression he uses to pretend he’s forgotten the question. "Pictures of what?" he asked innocently. The joke, of course, being about Shannon’s private DVD collection.

Matthew’s laughter was starting to sound like choking.

"Fine. We’ll get Matt to demonstrate for him," responded Tomo, offering his band mate to me with a surly grin.

"Oh-ho-ho. Leave me out of this," my bassist objected, prudently.

That was enough of that, I thought, sensing an undercurrent that was about to turn edgy. "Let’s get going," I suggested, "or we’ll have yogurt by the time we get home."

We’d hardly pulled up on the diner’s gritty gravel lot before Sam came running across the street to meet us. From the look on her face, I knew it was nothing good.

"Evie’s sick," was all she said, staring straight into my eyes. She held her arms crossed over her chest as if she felt a chill.

"Sick like how, sick," I asked.

"You better come see."

"Go on," Matt told me. "We’re okay here." I took Shannon and we jogged back across the road.

Sarah was there already, standing in the doorway of the room. Sam rushed in past her calling out, "Jared’s here!" to Evie and anyone else within earshot.

Which made me wonder what the hell she was expecting me to do, exactly. I shot an inquiring look at Sarah.

"Evie’s diabetic," she sighed quietly, her forehead creased with a soft frown. "She had enough insulin with her for yesterday morning, but since then she’s been out, and now she’s getting sick. Tired, light-headed, she’s been a little nauseous."

"Has anyone called a doctor? Doesn’t she have a prescription she can fill?" Why was everybody standing around doing nothing?

"No doctor between here and Vallejo," came Sarah’s whispered answer.

"How far to Vallejo then?"

"You can’t get there from here. Road blocks."

"Fuck." Since yesterday we’d been hearing reports of even more roads that had been blocked off with the use of tractor trailers and heavy earth-moving equipment almost any place there was a steep, impassable embankment, or dizzying drop-off, or enough heavy woodland encroachment to defy even the most intrepid SUV.

Sarah’s eyes grilled me darkly. "Prescription might work if we could get through to her home pharmacist. But, you do know the local pharmacy here was broken into the night before last, right?"

The hair on the back of my neck started to prickle with an unpleasant warning. Beside me, Shannon was shifting his weight uneasily from foot to foot. Inside the room I heard Evie’s voice whimper, "Jared? No…" from her bed.

"She doesn’t want you to see her like this," Sarah murmured.

Like we had time for a lot of fangirl drama. "Shannon?" I said, turning to look at him.

"I’m on it." He was already squeezing past me.

"So now the store owner is being a dick," Sarah continued. "Says it’s a crime scene and he won’t open up until the police have come and filled out their report. Guess they’ve had better things to do with their time recently."

As if looting was something unusual in a disaster, I was thinking. Funny how people will cling to their old sense of order even when it’s obvious the old order is coming apart. There was something both curious and accusatory in Sarah’s unwavering stare, however. On the one hand, I deeply resented its implication, but on the other hand… Our gazes warred with one another’s in a naked contest of wills. That part I found kind of exhilarating.

"I guess I can’t blame him." She was still pressing her point about the local druggist. "All the schedule three narcotics are missing. And all the syringes. And the insulin, too," she continued, "oddly enough."

Now, that brought the conversation to a pause, and I’m sure she sensed my confusion. "Why?" I asked aloud. The syringes, okay, but stealing the insulin made no sense.

"She’s got her test kit," Sarah nodded in Evie's direction. "Her sugar’s getting high." she shrugged, and stepped away from the doorway, putting an end to her side of our discussion.

Shannon had perched on the side of Evie’s bed and spoken a few words to her. I could hear her answering him, and then she started to cry. At that, I sort of barged my way in whether she liked it or not.

"Hey, Evie," I tried gently. "How you doing?" Shannon was holding her hand.

"Okay." She was scared, and I didn’t blame her.

"We're gonna work this out for you, I promise," Shannon said reassuringly, which struck me as a very bold thing to be so certain about. He stood up and motioned for me to follow him. When we got as far as the door he turned aside and said two words in a low whisper.

"Get Cody."

"Cody?" Instantly, I felt that same dreadful, suspicious tingle of intuition; it was just enough to stop me from asking the next, most obvious question.

Cody, when he was found and brought to Evie’s bedside, smiled and performed the following ritual with calm assurance and efficiency: he felt her skin, checked her pulse, asked her what she’d been eating and how much she’d been drinking, and used her test kit to check a blood sample. Then, he requested somebody go find Jack.

That’s Jack, my guitar tech, who immediately took off for points unspecified in Sarah’s borrowed Mazda. Less than twenty minutes later Cody had exactly what Evie needed.

Yes, without a doubt, there were a whole lot of questions about Cody just begging for clarification. I didn’t ask right then, though. Partly because it was worrying me too much just wondering how many of those questions Shannon might be able to answer.

Well, to change the subject, it only took the gamers until a little later that afternoon to all find each other.

And because more and more, it was starting to seem like we were going to be camped here together for a while, they began converting one of the recently vacated rooms into their temporary play palace. I’m not into that shit myself anymore, but I had to admire their industry. They spent most of what was left of the day hooking up and plugging in their pooled masses of equipment. People seriously involved in gaming travel with their own gear sometimes; I’m not kidding, and I don’t mean only our guys on the bus. Where there’s a will, and while there was still power, there was going to be a way.

I peeked in on Shannon and his new brotherhood just once. His face was all aglow from a mixture of adrenalin charged escapism, plus the light shining from the screen in front of him. Otherwise the room was basically dark since they’d unplugged all the lamps looking for more outlets. To me, the whole thing seemed like an eerily meticulous reconstruction of the bat cave. _Hahaha_ For the time being, I left the boy wonder to his distractions, thinking that later on I'd have no choice. I was going to have to ask him to tell me everything he knew about Cody.

\--stop--


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One "Future Imperfect"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: minor original character death  
> *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* Shannon tells a story Jared can’t seem to find the words for.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.

_\--------- * --------- * ---------_   
_"Under the burning sun_   
_I take a look around,_   
_imagine if this all came down…"_   
_\--------- * --------- * ---------_

 

007/00

Beta

My name is Shannon and this is my journal, which my brother Jared has asked me to keep. Unlike my more talkative sibling, I can be brief. Though sometimes I stray from the point. And sometimes I have a hard time expressing myself, and getting my point across. Two thoughts that seem totally unrelated in other people’s minds will have no trouble finding each other and linking up in my head. That’s when it starts to get interesting. Those are the times I’ve found it’s useful to have Jared around.

First, Jared has asked me to write a few words about Cody, our bus driver. Or, I should say Cody, who started out as our bus driver a week ago, but a lot has changed since then. Some days it seems like everything’s changed, including some very important things I thought would never, ever change. Worlds could collide, I used to think, and certain things would always stay the same, no matter what. Now, there are days when I feel like I just don’t know anything for certain anymore. Except for some of the things I understand about certain people. Shared experience, you might call it, which is a very powerful thing.

So, except for things like that, to me it seems like our situation has a lot of _uncertainty_.

I should say right away Cody and I have a unique affiliation. We’re part of the same fraternity; the kind you only talk about very late at night when everyone else has gone to sleep, or passed out, and the tequila is running low.

Before Cody drove bus for a living he was a paramedic, he tells me. It’s a rough job, and not for the faint-hearted. Too much compassion can be your worst enemy. That, and the crushing fatigue, which doesn’t do a body any good either. Back to back work shifts, never ending job-related stress; it all leads to classic burnout, right? Well, Cody burned.

You know what I mean? I mean, he started using. Using led to dealing. At first he wouldn’t touch the meds they carried on a run, but then… He got careless, and sloppy about fudging his documentation. About charting their waste. Or, he’d record administering a drug when he didn’t. Well, not to the patient at any rate.

He did prison. And rehab. He had a long time alone with himself to think about his life. Cody knew it was a cinch he was never gonna get his certification back, so now he drives bus for a bunch of rockers. Unbelievable. Driving for fucking rock bands, with his history and all. What is he, crazy? It's like, into the fire.

No, he’s not crazy. Not one bit. He’s one of the brethren. For some it’s drugs, or alcohol, or violence, or sex -- just name one. Or, more than one. Name all of the above. Name any fucking number of things that will put you on the inevitable path to your own destruction, grinning like a fool and bearing it because the ride doesn’t stop until you’ve come to the last demolition. Life’s a metaphor for the war going on in your soul -- until you’ve finally orchestrated your moment of truth and found out for yourself -- it’s all lies. So, traveling along that boundless highway, whenever we chance to meet up with one of our fellows, we discover we know each other only too well. We have all of us, by one means or another, come through that same dark night, and stared out between the bars of our own self-limiting vision, and survived the fire to rise again.

I’m getting poetic. I think I’ve said enough about that.

The other thing Jared asked me to write about was the one really bad night we’ve had so far when we were raided. I don’t know the exact day when Jared started keeping his journal, but it’s been four days now since Tomo disappeared, and apparently he hasn’t been able to write anything about it yet. So, he asked me.

It won’t be easy.

I don’t know why he thinks I know anymore about what happened than he does at this point, except that while the other four of us were all still staying in the same room together, Jared was gone that night. Well, I figured I knew where Jared was, but it’s not like we keep such close tabs on each other that I was worried, or anything. Sarah’s a beautiful woman. Not as impressionable as what he usually goes for, but like I said, things are changing.

I woke up to the sound of a female voice yelling pretty loud and angry, and a man’s voice answering her back in kind. Nate’s eyes were glittering in the dark where he was lying motionless beside me. A domestic dispute or two seemed kind of inevitable when you think about it, given the amount of anxiety we’d all been living with. But then suddenly there was the sound of shattering glass and a whole bunch of male voices. The woman’s yelling turned into a high-pitched scream, and the pounding of running feet passed in front of our door.

"What the fuck…" Tomo jumped out of bed and stumbled across the room, reaching towards the door handle.

"Wait," Matt began. His hand groped over the nightstand searching for his glasses. I think he intended to go with Tomo, wherever the hell Tomo thought he was going, but already the door had been yanked open and there stood our fearless guitarist -- or rather, make that our semi-conscious and therefore not thinking guitarist -- displaying himself in all his glory under the gray light of the moon.

The next sound I heard was the front of the building being sprayed with gunfire.

I think Matt yelled, "Shit!" or something like that as he made a diving leap from the bed, knocking Tomo to the floor. Reacting on instinct, I threw myself over Nate, figuring we were done for, exposed as we were on top of the mattress like that. Prey on a serving plate. I grabbed him around the shoulders and kept rolling right off the edge of the bed, pulling him down to the carpet with me. We landed hard, hidden between the two doubles with his elbow stabbing into my ribs. I still have the bruise.

"You guys okay?" I called out anxiously. "Everybody okay?"

Matt’d barely had time to kick the door shut from where they were lying. "Yeah," he huffed. The shooting ended quickly, but not the sound of running feet.

Tomo was ready to charge out the door again and I heard Matt going, "Jesus, at least get your pants on," and "Where’s the bat?" and stuff like that. I never for one second supposed jeans were much of a defense against bullets. That idea seemed kind of absurd. But I think Matt was just trying to slow Tomo down enough for his gray matter to start working, so he wasn’t all reaction and no thinking. We were, all of us, stumbling around in the dark looking for things to use as weapons when the sound of more shattering glass and the girls’ screaming reached us, two doors down.

At that, Tomo was gone. No hesitation.

Some of the stuff I’m gonna write about now, the things that followed right after the part when we were still in the room, might be a little out of order. But I’ll do my best.

Actually, I don’t know exactly what happened next. When the shooting started, I didn’t want to turn on the lights and make us targets. Now, I realized there were no lights. Inside, or out. There was no power. Oh, I know -- I ordered Nate to stay in the room and not follow us outside. In fact, I suggested he lock himself in the bathroom and keep quiet, but looking at his face even in that murky twilight, I got my first real taste of what it’s like to be totally ineffectual as a parent. He wasn’t even bothering to say "fuck that shit, man" or anything. His expression said it all. We burst out the door together only a couple seconds behind Matt into a scene of total chaos.

The first thing I wanted to do was yell for Jared. Well, really, the first thing I think I did was to try looking around the parking lot, which was mostly hidden under that pall of darkness. There were people crouched between the cars who I thought I recognized, and people I didn’t, and a couple of large vehicles just idling in the middle with their engines left running, including a Hummer, I think. And there were some more shadows crowded under the portico down in front of the motel office looking up our way. That’s when I wanted to holler for Jared, just to put my mind at ease. It would have been stupid, though, with guns around. To call out and give away your position would be to invite death.

Most of the commotion was at the opposite end of the complex anyway. Nate and I crept off in that direction, sneaking along the concrete walk using the cars parked near the building for cover. My heart was pounding and I wished I could see where Matt had gone. The most distinct sound in my ears was Tomo, somewhere, swearing at the top of his lungs. We were close. Suddenly, someone came up on Nate and grabbed him from behind. There was a startled sound and a brief struggle. When I turned, I barely had time to pull my punch, I was so pumped on adrenalin. It was my brother.

"Hold up," he said in a bitterly calm voice.

"Tomo’s down there," I told him, "and Matt, I think."

That was not news he wanted to hear. Unexpectedly, all around us, I heard the mechanical bark and rumble of car engines coming to life and swinging about to turn their headlights on the building. It was our guys, my brother's doing.

"They should block them off!" Nate exclaimed excitedly, thinking how easy it would be for us to box the raiders in.

"No, they should _not_ block them off," Jared snapped. "That’s exactly what I told them not to do, those fuckers have guns. And we have women and children. We should let them escape; we should encourage them to."

The sudden flood of light was having its desired effect, flushing the vandals out. They were carrying away all kinds of stuff with them, including one attempt to carry off a woman. I say attempt because she was snarling and slapping and not going at all willingly. There were a lot of voices yelling back and forth, you couldn’t tell for sure who was who. Someone came out of a doorway and raked the lot with gunfire again, which was followed by a bunch more screaming. Jared and I both turned and grabbed for each other at the same time.

Right after that our attackers roared out of the parking lot. For a moment, I just felt stunned, and stood there buzzing all over with the after burn I always get from a violent encounter. Then, I started hearing things happening around me, like the sound of a girl crying. And a child screaming for its mother.

What happened next? Well, there were glass shards everywhere, even though later we only found three of the rooms had windows that were broken. Some of the cars had broken windows, too, though. Little pebbles of their shatter-proof glass littered the ground like hail. Evie, Sam, Mike and Jenna were all okay, only scared within an inch of their lives. Evie looked like death; no surprise, I suppose, what with everything else she’d been through that day. Tomo was pacing and swearing, and so pissed off he was practically incoherent. That’s when Sarah appeared clutching a flashlight and a cell phone. Miraculously, it had made a connection when she dialed 911.

Something’s definitely out of order here, I know it. Because by the time Sarah caught up with us, we’d already gone room by room to assess the damage. And although I suppose it could have been worse, it was plenty bad. There were lots of cuts from flying glass including a nasty one on a kid’s face, and bullet holes in the dry wall above the beds, so you could see just how close a call it had really been. We were momentarily stunned to find a guy with a very messy head wound, dead on his pillow in room 23. If he was a heavy sleeper, he probably never knew what hit him. I think his name was Dan, and I’d talked to him briefly the day before. He was a lobbyist for some power company, or something like that. Then, in a room a little farther down there was a woman with a deep, deep knife wound in her gut, gasping for breath. Her husband was hovering over her looking dazed, holding a bloody towel against the nasty-looking gash. Behind them, peeking out the bathroom door, I could see their two kids staring in a frozen silence, like frightened animals.

Okay, that’s where Sarah came into it. I don’t remember her whole conversation with the tool on the other end of the phone, but I do remember her barely controlled panic and frustration. She’d been connected to a dispatcher in Sacramento who kept insisting Gabriel Crossing was not part of their jurisdiction, but we were told they’d pass a message on to the National Guard in our area. And how long would that take, Sarah demanded. We had wounded. We needed an ambulance. The next thing we knew, she had been disconnected.

Cody was there by then, too. He didn’t say anything, but he looked at Jared and shook his head slightly -- this wasn’t a problem that could wait for an official response. Have we mentioned Aaron yet? He was one of the guys who ran lights for us in San Francisco. He’s got this Dodge Durango, and that first night he’d been following us coming up from the city.

So, anyway, here was Cody, asking me to get him stuff like clean towels. And then, while he had me running and fetching, he started ripping up a bed sheet to bind a dressing on with, getting this woman ready for transport. We got her shifted on to a blanket and rolled up the edges around her so she could be lifted more easily. I remember Cody keeping a running conversation going with Tomo, though not what it was about, and Jared saying, "Cody, we need you here," 'cause there were a lot of people with lesser injuries that still needed attention. And Cody mumbling, "I know."

The woman’s husband wanted to go with her, as you can imagine, but Jared said "no," and he also said a bunch of other stuff to the guy about how much his kids were going to need him now. There was another girl -- well woman -- there too, who wasn’t hurt, who said she’d go along instead, and that she had some medical experience, which turned out to be as a dental hygienist, but nobody was quibbling with her at that point. After we got the stabbed woman settled in the back of the Durango, and as comfortable as possible, Aaron climbed into the front seat, and Tomo got in the passenger side next to him.

That was the first time I realized Tomo was going with them, and that everything Cody had been telling him was about trying to keep the poor lady alive until they got her to a hospital. I saw someone I didn’t know lean in Tomo’s window and try to hand him something, saying very simply, "Here." It was a pistol. Looked like maybe one of those new S&W’s I once heard someone describe as "combat Tupperware." Efficient little thing. Immediately, Jared said "no" again, on principle I’m sure, but from where Tomo was sitting he must have seen the situation differently. He took it.

That was four days ago. We expected they might have some trouble finding their way to a hospital, so they headed out in the direction of Sacramento with the plan of taking I-80, because the road blocks along there were manned and more like check points. We figured they could probably talk their way through under the circumstances. Unlike the other blockades; you can’t reason with a parked truck.

But now we don’t know what to think. That night, nobody expected them to get back with any news until the next day. We waited and waited. And when that day had come and gone, we started looking for them anxiously the day after that.

Now, the days have kept passing, and still nothing.

On that last night when we were all still together, I remember coming out of the game room -- out of one kind of darkness, and into another -- with the moon rising red over the horizon, and off a little ways I could hear the sound of someone playing a guitar. It was Jared. He was down under the portico with a small group of people just strumming and singing quietly. I hadn’t heard anything like that for a few days and in those surroundings, in such an open place, it seemed a strange and airy sound, and haunting. A little farther away by the drive, partially hidden under some tall hedges, I could see Tomo kinda lounging back with someone. They were sitting very close together and after a few moments’ study I decided it was Jenna. Echelon. Damn. It seemed another ‘rule’ was about to be broken, or at least challenged. Everything was crumbling, and it made me feel uneasy, like a premonition of something much greater that was near to slipping away. You never know a thing, though, as well as you know it in hindsight.

If only I could have read the signs.

\--stop--


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two: "R-evolve"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: Jared/Tomo; minor original character death  
> *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* Picking up the pieces. The intersection of an old and a new life finally starts coming into focus. Everyone’s thinking about Tomo. No one is quite prepared to confront their worst fear.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.

_\--------- * --------- * ---------_  
 _"It’s the end, here today,_  
 _but I will build a new beginning._  
 _Take some time,_  
 _find a place… "_  
 _\--------- * --------- * ---------_

　

010/00

Alpha

There’s nothing I really want to add to Shannon’s account of the raid on the night that Tomo disappeared, now that I’ve read what he wrote and have had a chance to think about it. It’s been… well, it’s been almost a week since we last saw them, and I wonder if they ever even made it to Sacramento. Or, if they did, were they not allowed to leave again? Or did Aaron find his family when they got there and didn’t _want_ to leave again? In the middle of the night, when I’m not sleeping, I think about all kinds of things we didn’t consider before they set out. And lately I’ve been sleeping alone a lot, too, which seems strange all of a sudden. Nate wanted to move in to a different room with some of the other younger guys -- he didn’t say anything to us when he made that decision, he just went ahead and did it.

But getting back to the rest of that one bad night; after Tomo and Aaron left with the injured woman -- whose name was Maggie, by the way -- Shannon took Nate and went back to our dark little room, and together, they crawled into the bed farthest from the door. They were curled up with each other tight as a fist when I finally returned, so I slipped into the other bed next to Matt. Right after the attack, there had been an awful lot of panicky people with anxieties that needed talking down, naturally, so Sarah and I had spent some time with them. Later, lying flat on my back, staring into space, I tried to let go of their frantic horror which had gotten a pretty good grip on me. Without Tomo among us the space between those four walls felt at least half empty. And none of us really slept. How could you, after everything that had happened? So, basically we were all just lying there perfectly still in the darkness; silent, barely breathing, not saying a word to each other, and listening warily to every freaking sound.

Then, mysteriously, the power came back on a few hours later. You never actually know why the power goes out here in the first place, whenever it does, but one thing I understand for certain; someday soon the lights are going to go out for good, and they will never come on again.

The next morning, before the sun could even get clear of the eastern horizon, five of the motel’s units were promptly vacated by their former occupants. People wanted nothing more than to be away from this place and, frankly, I didn’t blame them. There had been no sign of those National Guard troops who were supposedly coming to our rescue, and I know that I, for one, wasn’t holding my breath any longer waiting for them. (They did surprise me by showing up almost a day and a half later, though. That’s how long it took them to find us out here in the California wilderness formerly known as Braeburn County.)

Jack came wandering over from the room next door, bright and early, looking for Nate and Shannon, and they headed across the street to the diner together. Some activities in the cycle of life never change. About thirty minutes later Nate came back with coffee, which we were running out of, and hot cocoa in styrofoam cups. There were bags of breakfast sandwiches, too, for all us guys. Most of them were ham, or sausage, so I had to eat around the meat, but that was okay with me. I’d planned on eating light anyway. We had a nasty chore to do.

Dan, the unlucky stiff in room 23, needed a decent burial. Still in a deep, deep state of denial, some of the others argued for leaving everything untouched and waiting for the "authorities," but I was like, you have to be kidding. They just didn’t get it yet that we were basically on our own here, and we had to get this poor guy into the ground before he turned into the Lord of the Flies. Sarah unlocked the landscaper’s shed out back for us, and we helped ourselves to spades and things.

In the room, the smell of blood was kind of over-powering and -- have you ever smelled brains? Cody told me severe head injuries all have a particular odor, and that sometimes when he was still a paramedic, he could tell an open head injury by the smell even before he found the breach in the skull. Now that I know what he’s talking about, I don’t think I’ll forget any time soon.

Anyway, it was kind of gruesome just getting all the pieces of the guy’s head out of the room. First, we wrapped him up in his blankets, and then we wrapped everything in sheets of black plastic that we’d found in the shed. Even his pillows. Nobody could bear the thought of trying to lift him off of them, and Cody said, "Don’t bother. They’re probably stuck." So… Then, we hauled him off towards the woods.

All I can say about that is, if the man deserved a decent, Christian burial, I’m sorry. He got me instead, and the best I could come up with. As soon as we’d left the room, a few of the more stalwart women came in to clean up. We hadn’t dug down more than two feet when they brought out some of his personal belongings to us. A watch and a ring they’d found on the dresser. His wallet. A digital camera. His PDA. I took the ID out of his wallet and kept it, just to have something for the record, but I figured he should at least be buried with his pictures of his loved ones. The other items we placed on top of his mummy wrappings like grave goods before we shoveled the dirt in on top of him. So long, Dan. Daniel H. White, age 42. Brown hair, hazel eyes, 165 lbs.

While I and the rest of my band family were taking care of all this, we put some of our too squeamish little tribe members to work at cleaning up the shards and bits of broken glass that were lying around everywhere, and then asked them to try to find a way to cover over the gaping holes in the front of the building that used to be windows. Having nothing else materials-wise to work with, they’d resorted to more of the black plastic sheeting, and duct tape. Duct tape. Are you picturing this? Here’s a perfect portrait of my fledgling community of road refugees: helpless and resourceless, not to mention clueless.

So, when we came around front to inspect their efforts, Shannon just stood beside me laughing, but he looked like he might cry, too, in another minute. I knew what he was thinking. We’d once duct taped the side of a bus back together after an ignominious defeat suffered while trying to run an urban obstacle course in record time. Our driver had hit a sign, rushing too much because we were late for a performance (again). What can I say? So, with very little time to spare, and no particular skills, we’d made a shit stupid, make-do repair with black duct tape until there was a chance to get the whole side panel replaced.

Ah, yes. Those were the days -- and the duct tape -- of our innocence. Well, here we were now, Shannon and me, still side-by-side; still braving the unknown daily battles, but wrestling with the knowledge that, more than likely, we were never going to see the hopeful naiveté of those former days again.

Anyway, that suddenly made me start thinking about the bus. And the equipment truck, and wondering about the place where Cody had stashed them both. I mean, if there were highway pirates roaming around, was everything still safe? I thought it was high time I had a look for myself.

\---------

010/00

Beta

I miss drumming, I really do. Up to this point, being the drummer for 30 Seconds to Mars is, like, something I’ve done nearly every day of my life for so long -- for what seems to me like as long as I can remember. It’s almost everything that I am. Not quite, but practically. And now, suddenly, to start going without… I don’t know, it’s just been really weird. For me, music is like a healthy addiction. Then, whoa, all of a sudden here I am going cold turkey without my drug.

Those first few days after the Crisis, though, it was actually kind of a nice break in the routine to be doing a lot of other things so totally unexpected. Sort of like a movie scenario, but with no script. Yeah, improv. Better than any game. It made us all flex our other muscles. Mental muscles. I mean, in spite of all the scary stuff that’s been happening -- What am I trying to say? -- it’s been something different, in a good way. Good in _some_ ways. In spite of the uncertainty we live with over what may or may not have happened to Tomo, and not being able to find out a damn thing about the rest of my family. That part is terrible. But, now, it’s been over a week since our last concert, and I’m really starting to miss the performing and the music. Like those moments when I’d be watching Jared, and he’d turn to me, and I’d feel as if I had him all to myself.

Today, we’re writing stuff about the day they buried Dan, right?

Well, I was over at the diner that morning. Jack came in from out back and said to me, "The garbage situation is getting out of control." Yeah, really. Earlier that morning I’d thought I could smell it as soon as I’d set foot in the parking lot. Maybe he hadn’t noticed the dumpster had been overflowing since the day before yesterday. Obviously we were beyond the hope of ever seeing a county waste pick-up. Now we were out of trash bags, too.

"Tomo had been watching the propane pretty closely," Jack added, running his hands under the hot water at the sink. Soap. That was the other thing. We needed more soap. "I think we’ll be empty soon after today." He tossed me a towel to add to the bundle of kitchen linens that were waiting to be laundered.

"I’ll mention it to Jared," I told him. We were just finishing the clean up after breakfast, and I was thinking to myself, finding someone to deliver propane seemed like it might be a real chore. "Sounds like a job for you and Cody," I suggested. He nodded wearily, looking like he hadn’t slept for two days. Well, he probably hadn’t.

I found Matt and my brother with the rest of our old crew out on the lawn right by the tree line behind the motel, digging. Getting ready to hold a funeral. Somehow, it just didn’t seem like the right time to bring up the issue of the dumpster. So, I figured that later that afternoon, on my own, I’d start people separating their trash into categories like recyclables -- containers that might have other uses -- and compostable waste, and whatever kinds of stuff could be burned. We’ve got it down to a real science now. Garbage that will attract rats, for example, like chicken bones and half eaten sandwiches, gets carried a long way out into the field behind Mugs, and the crows and raccoons come for it. Natural solutions.

Jared was trying to say a few words over that guy Dan’s grave, because people all seemed to expect it. And he really did say just a few words instead of going on and on, you know, like he sometimes does. He got it just right. I was proud of him. I’d been half afraid he might start spinning one of those stories of his, and invent a whole imaginary life for the dude, just to hear the sound of his own voice eulogizing, or wander off into philosophizing about the nature of Life and Death. But he was good.

(I think I should add, maybe, that Jared doesn’t do those kinds of things just to be an ass. Honestly. Most of the time it only happens when he’s bored. Or sick of the people he’s dealing with. Or angry and being a little passive aggressive with someone. Stuff like that.)

Man, I really miss having my drum kit. Jared’s got his guitar in the room. I say we need to get some more of our stuff off the truck and down here to The Swallows, so we can play together again.

\---------

010/00

Gamma

We began to reorganize the compound at the motel on May 24, 2007 by the old calendar. Other more involved changes would follow, but those first, simple adaptations were made immediately following the funeral of Dan White, and came as a direct result of the assault we’d suffered unexpectedly on our third night here. Our crew and some of the other guys who’d helped with the digging held a joint powwow over a cold lunch, served on the back lawn right after Jared’s little ceremony; half picnic, half communal funerary meal. Then, by group consensus, we decided on some changes and set about implementing them.

*Note: Jared has already recommended the adoption of a new calendar, by the way, which some of the others have started using. It begins with the year zero, and assigns day one in the New Era to the first night of the Crisis. By that reckoning, the first full day we spent at The Swallows becomes day two. It’s a little confusing, but I expect we’ll all be used to it soon enough.*

Here’s a quick assessment of our situation: Strategically speaking, the Swallows has a relatively simple, linear design plan with a north/south orientation. North of the office, there are six guest units facing the main road, and six more units directly behind them that face the back lot and the woods.

Moving south, the next structural segment of the building is the motel office, which is attached to both the northern and southern units. The office itself is a point of vulnerability. It has a façade made almost entirely of glass that can be approached directly by a vehicle pulled up under the portico. Therefore, one of the first things we determined to do, was to block off the portico space by parking our own vehicles under and around it, and also to cover over the plate glass with plywood, or something stronger, as soon as we could scrounge up the materials. That was a priority.

Behind the office space is the lower level of the living quarters currently occupied by Sarah and her two children: a living room, a kitchen, and a small convenience room with a toilet and a sink. (I know, because I’d been over there one night with Tomo, eating Sarah’s excellent empanadas and listening to her old CDs. _Delicate Sound of Thunder_.) Above that is a second story, the only upper level on the entire building complex, which consists of three small bedrooms and a full bath.

It is the upper level which affords the widest possible view of the surrounding terrain.

The south side of the structure is made up of a long row of fourteen units laid out in a straight line, then a utility room and a combined vending/laundry room at the far end. An "L" shaped attachment of two larger suites runs east of the vending/laundry utilities, and across the back lot.

There are black-topped parking areas in both the front and in back of the complex. Two driveways afford access to the front of the motel from the main road, and another utility access exists along the south-eastern back corner of the compound, which formerly was used mainly for deliveries. There is no really effective barrier to perimeter penetration by a vehicle, such as dense shrubbery or fencing, between the road and the motel parking lot. The forested area behind the motel is mostly deciduous, old wood, and thickly under grown, but hardly impassable for a raiding party on foot. It would, however, be particularly difficult to negotiate after dark. (I can see much of this coming down for fuel, at some point in the future.) Therefore, that area is not secure either.

Fortunately, there are only a few entry/exit doors on the rear side of the building, and those will be relatively easy to guard.

It was decided that the room assignments should be reorganized so that the units closest to the office would be occupied by families with children, and women traveling alone or in groups with other women. That was as close to keeping them in an interior location as we could manage. Also, the six units on the north end facing the back lot were reassigned in a similar manner. In an emergency, it will be possible to conduct an organized retreat into the two story residential structure through Sarah’s rear entry door, which is accessible from the back parking area.

For now, the motel units at both ends of the complex are only being assigned to men rooming together.

Eric, our production manager, and I were asked to help get everyone resettled.

I should mention that room #23 had been sealed, and at this time, has no occupant.

\---------

010/00

Alpha

There is one more thing I want to add about Tomo, I’ve decided. It’s nothing about anything that’s occurred since we’ve been here, but rather something that happened between us a long time ago.

A few years back during one of our first tours together, not long after Tomo had joined the band, we found ourselves out west in the neighborhood of Denver, Colorado with some time to kill between gigs. A few days off for a mini-vacation. I asked Tomo if he was up for some hiking in the mountains with me, and he said, "Yeah." So, we left my brother and Matt to their own diversions and set off into the wild.

The Rocky Mountains are something you really need to experience for yourself, first hand. I won’t go on like a guidebook here, about the natural beauty of everything, but even when I knew civilization was only a few hours’ trek over the next ridge, I always found them formidable and awe-inspiring. Isolated, tech silent, intimidating. And as always, once I’d climbed high enough, there would be this very real sense that I could lose myself somewhere up there between the mountain and the sky. I’d go, looking for a little silence and serenity to clear my head, and find myself standing before a gateway to the underside of heaven.

I’d been to Flat Top a couple of years before, and was somewhat familiar with the backcountry around Bear Lake, but I had another destination in mind for this trip. We planned to spend three nights out on the mountain, Tomo and I; two going up, and one coming down.

That first morning, we set off optimistically in the cool, clean air with a lively conversation rambling along between us; a vague, inconsistent idea chain that jumped back and forth between episodes from our separate pasts, and hopes about our presumed shared future. Slowly, expectantly, we were divesting our souls of everything we’d carried into that pristine wilderness with us. Our talk spiraled upward. We discussed our work, the concerts we’d played recently, the music, and our band mates. We gave voice to some spoken and some previously unspoken questions about what had brought us all together. Not just as musicians, but as people. As individuals on a synchronous journey.

Eventually, the quality of the terrain began demanding we focus all our attention on the climb, and our voices fell silent. At that point, it seemed as if the arduous journey itself was drawing us into its mystery, and another kind of synergy began to take over.

I could hear Tomo’s rough breathing as he scrambled over the rocks behind me. When I turned without speaking to offer him a hand, he never once looked up towards me before his fingers locked around mine in a single, smooth, unhesitating motion. Knowing by some instinct my hand was there, waiting for his. I leveraged my weight back, leaning away from him, and he worked against my resistance to pull himself forward and upward. In this way, we kept moving higher along the face of the mountain, foothold by precarious foothold.

When we’d gotten over the tough part and resumed the trail, it seemed that singularly revealing moment of interaction between Tomo and me had been captured indelibly by my memory, like a favorite photograph. The two of us, working our strengths off against one another to achieve a goal. It was an image that would return to me again and again in the future; in the studio, on the tour, or whenever we wrangled away with each other, impassioned over a song or life in general.

Tomo was always my technical conscience, as well as so much more.

I guess nothing about growing up in Detroit had prepared him for sleeping out in the open on that first night. I won’t say that he was afraid, but I could sense him listening to every unfamiliar sound, and I knew he was tense and alert. And cold, and that he wasn’t sleeping. He seemed committed to bearing it in silence, though, so I let him. Overhead, the dome of the night sky turned like a great clock, full of stars seemingly close enough to touch. Off and on, throughout that night, I stirred from my sleep to check the progress of those icy flickers traversing from horizon to horizon, marking the passing of the hours until daylight. And I’d listen for Tomo’s breathing, which remained steady, but wakeful. At dawn, we shared some tea and a simple breakfast, then packed up our camp and moved on.

The second day we spent climbing in a kind of profound quiet, direct and very in the moment. No need for words to help us focus on our task. One footfall followed securely after another. Our journey continued, characterized more by our silences than our words. Tomo particularly seemed unable to place his thoughts in the realm of speech, so I tried to follow him into the meaning of his quiet, but… he was in a private place which seemed to require very little of me, only that I be a patient companion. And that was something I personally understood very well.

We made good time that day and found ourselves in a decent place to make camp by late afternoon while the sun was still four fingers above the horizon.

I can tell you that after the sun goes down, there’s usually never much to do except talk and mind your fire, and get a good night’s sleep to prepare yourself for whatever the next day will bring. We laid out our sleeping bags and blanket rolls side by side, Tomo placing his a lot closer to mine than he had the night before, I noticed. Then, for the moment, we stretched out on top of them with only a blanket each for cover, and settled back to watch the sky.

The previous night, I’d spent telling him some of what I knew about the constellations, reciting the old tales and myths, and pointing out their patterns in the stars. But this night, there was nothing more of that which I felt the need to share with him. So instead, I lay there waiting to see what he might share with me.

The night was black and infinite enough to make you dizzy. Above us, a meteor arced across the limitless dark like a warning flare, like an angel fallen down a well of gravity and burning to a cinder in the crystal pure air. It was the sort of sight I might have anticipated, but beside me, I thought I could feel a shudder of strangeness pass through Tomo. He didn’t make a sound, though, and I can still distinctly remember my own breath catching at the back of my throat. I imagined I could hear his heart hammering away in his chest, like he’d seen an omen; the first of many that night, I should think. And I can also remember the way his fingers dug into the ground, hanging on as if he thought the Earth might let go of him letting him fall up and up into the dark, and the largeness of the heavens, where he could end up being swallowed whole.

"Are you cold?" That’s all I asked him. Not about any of the rest of it.

And he said, "Yeah."

"Well, get closer," I replied, offering him my unlimited invitation.

With a bit of shuffling, we doubled our blankets together and threw them over one another, curling up tightly until we were breathing each other’s air. We ended up sleeping that way, too. Closer, I think, than he was prepared for, and another new experience. As his fingers warmed, they brushed over me in a casual, accidental sort of way exploring me. Testing me. Learning to trust my restraint. Finally, his palms found a place to settle, spreading themselves against the flat of my back, and slowly his tentative touch turned into a kind of caress.

There was sex between us, but we did not have sex. I can’t even say for sure now if we wanted to. What we did share, I can tell you, was a deeper more devotional kind of caring; the sort of love-making that goes on between brothers. His breath bathed my face in its warmth, and his nearness comforted the rest of me, infusing me with a rare sensation of peace. Rare for me, I should say. It was that intimate feeling of his nearness, and the knowledge that he had not denied me his person, which filled me so completely, more than any overt act. Just the incredible and amazing thought that what I held in my arms was all of him -- in every sense, and in every way that I knew to be true, or real.

In the morning, we would untangle ourselves and set out to find our way back down from the mountain, to begin the path of our descent as if waking from a dream. But for the rest of that one night we remained bound together in our snug woolen chrysalis, warm, safe, and whole. It was, after all, the reason why I had brought him there in the first place. I’d been hoping he would want to share the unexplainable mystery with me, that he would be willing. And for that, I am so very grateful to this day. Meanwhile, over our heads, the pantheon of heaven kept creeping along on its preordained journey, tracing and retracing an eons-old, inevitable course; charting out the distance between the darkness of our nights, and the subtle revelations of our days.

\--stop--


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two: "R-evolve"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* Jared tries to keep a controlling hand on everything, but the "devil", as they say, is in the details. Particularly the details you’ve overlooked.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.

 

_\--------- * --------- * ---------_   
_"It’s the end, here today,_   
_but I will build a new_   
_beginning._   
_Take some time,_   
_find a place…"_   
_\--------- * --------- * ---------_

 

014/00

Alpha

I finally got serious about our situation the day after we held that makeshift funeral for Dan White, partly because the next morning our water stopped flowing for a few very anxious hours. Now what, I thought. Nothing but dry taps at both the motel and the diner across the street. Just about the time everyone was ready to panic it suddenly came back on again though, inexplicably. The color at first--a light, murky brown--was not encouraging. We didn’t know if it was safe to drink or not.

So, we ran the faucets wide open for a while, till finally the water seemed to be coming through the lines pretty clear. Then we started boiling the clean looking water in soup pots. Of course, that meant we were using up the last of our propane even faster.

Another problem that needed to be dealt with.

"Couldn’t we do this over a wood fire?" Shannon asked. "Since, you know, sooner or later we may have to?"

"Not as efficiently," I told him. "But yeah. We could."

While trying to secure the compound the day before, Matt and Eric had stumbled across some left over cinder block in a thicket of wild grass and weeds near the back corner of the property. Along with it was a heap of other discarded construction stuff that must have been sitting there since the days when the Swallow’s owner had built on the last addition. Now, with a touch of inventiveness, we were able to fashion a couple of very nice fire pits out of the refuse. Meanwhile, inspired by our creativity and wanting to help, my brother went to round up all the kids like it was a day at camp, and gave them a job to do gathering dry wood at the forest’s edge behind the hotel. Off they trooped with their "pack leader," scurrying around among the trees, ecstatic to be having a little adventure of their own.

"No one gets lost!" I heard Shannon admonishing them loudly. "Everyone pick a buddy! And then stick together! No matter what! Don’t let ’em get out of your sight!"

"Words to live by," I muttered to Matt, who chuckled softly.

Never will you hear a clearer, more articulate expression of Shannon’s personal mantra. He’s been following that ideal for as long as I can… well, give or take a few notable exceptions, probably since the day I was born.

And even when I was out of sight, I know he could never get me out of his thoughts.

Once the fires were started in the pits, the guys stole the racks from the ovens over at the diner, and fitted them across the tops of the block. Then came the women, lugging the cookware.

"This’ll work," Eric nodded happily.

I haven’t really said much about Eric yet, but he’s been as important to our survival here as anyone. Originally, he had signed on to be our production manager a few months back when the shows were finally getting too big for just us and our handful of techs to handle on our own. By that time we had banners and backdrops, props, screens, flags, risers, a lighting plan… and sometimes even guys in animal suits, or dancers on the stage. Every venue’s a little bit different from the last one. You’re constantly making adjustments for what you can and can’t use and still have a show that looks good. Anyway, it had become a fulltime job in itself to figure all that out every night.

Eric had been a genius at making impossible situations workable in the space of a single afternoon. And now, since the Crisis, his ingenuity was rapidly becoming indispensable to me in new ways.

The only thing was, somehow he had managed to completely get off on the wrong foot with Sarah back in the beginning. And I honestly don’t know what that was all about, at first. But now, it doesn't even matter anymore. It's their default setting. Every issue that comes along seems to be another source of conflict between the two of them.

That morning, Sarah was standing a short way off to the side, scowling into the sun and watching us. Toby, her littlest, was clinging to one of those incredibly long, shapely legs of hers, and howling angrily for attention. Their moods sort of seemed to match each other’s. The day before, Sarah and Eric had really gotten into it, and I, unfortunately, had ended up arbitrating the outcome.

The problem was partly because when all of us guys got together and decided to reorganize the compound, one of the less diplomatic things we did was to make our decisions without consulting Sarah. So, when Matt and Eric started moving people around without even telling her first, she took it really badly.

I won’t call Eric a chauvinist, exactly, in spite of some of the things he said. It was more like -- for most of my guys, and Eric, too, the mindset is like the tour is still on in a way; we’ve just gotten a new gig here at the Swallows. And the established lines of authority still matter.

Well, Sarah had never been a part of that chain of command. And now, unless I was going to make her a part of it, that was just the way things were.

From Sarah’s perspective, though, the Swallows was still her turf and her responsibility, and maybe more importantly, her _home_. So, things really boiled over when she was informed the lookouts would be needing access to her second floor living quarters for security purposes.

Like I said, this was all done pretty gracelessly. The next thing I knew, she was in my face hissing like a cat.

I looked over at Matt and Eric who had come trailing in behind her. Matt offered me a resigned shrug of utter helplessness. Eric’s expression, however, had set itself firmly in a contentious sneer.

Her tirade only lasted a minute. Sharp like claws and to the point.

"Alright," I frowned, trying only to address Sarah’s strained sense of personal boundaries and nothing more. "Change all the room assignments the way we talked about, but for now the rest can wait."

"Fine, princess," Eric drawled with deceptively cool calm, "keep your fucking palace."

This wasn’t over yet and we all knew it.

Here’s one of the things, to this minute, I don’t think Sarah completely understands about the tenets of masculine leadership: it’s not like being a mom, you can't tell your "kids" you love them all equally, but it's not always about exercising the force of your will over people, either. That’ll get you killed. Figuratively, or… It’s more like wooing a woman. The safest course of action is to only have one mistress at a time. And at the moment, one is about all I can afford.

Above Eric’s fire pits, the water was starting to boil and churn in those large stainless steel pots. On the outside they were all streaked and smudged with sooty black -- that's the inefficiency of wood. That’ll happen whenever you don’t let your fire burn down enough first. When I looked up, I saw Sarah’s figure shimmering in the heat waves that rose between us.

"Some of the guys are going foraging later," I said to Eric quietly, just to put some kind of sound into the empty air.

"Soap," he responded. "Tell them not to forget soap."

"Right." Shannon had already mentioned that.

Then, "Hey!" I called out to her, wheedling a little with what I hoped was an irresistible smile. "Mama Earth! Would you happen to know, where does soap come from? And don’t say the grocery store!"

Please forgive me?

She looked away and sighed; I didn’t actually hear the sigh, but I could sense it. A moment passed, and then another during which I could see she was fighting her urge to smile back at me.

Finally, she said, "Save all the white ash from the fire," and fixed me with a hard-eyed stare.

"Really?" By then I was grinning like a fool from ear to ear, watching the breeze chase tendrils of her hair across her face. "You know how to make soap?" I must have made it sound like a skill akin to spinning straw into gold.

"Don’t push it," she shot back. Grabbing Toby up in her arms, she turned and retreated majestically into her sanctuary behind her back door.

Maybe she does understand a little after all.

 

\---------

014/00

Gamma

When people meet Jared for the first time, while he’s pinning them down under that penetrating stare of his, I think they imagine he can see right through them. Right into them. As if their every secret has been laid bare for his perusal. At least, that’s how I felt.

It took me a while to realize that as perceptive as Jared can be, and as unrelenting as he is when he’s got you under his microscope, a lot of the time he’s just too preoccupied to notice everything. You’re not the only item on his agenda, and there are many, many other things going on in his mind at the same time.

So, sometimes he doesn’t see what’s right in front of him. Take, for example, what’s been happening between Eric and Sarah. Sometimes Jared can be dense as a post.

I’m not sure why Shannon decided to drag me along on his and Cody’s scavenger hunt, but maybe he thought I’d been spending too much time alone lately. He’d said something like that to me the other day. Well, believe me, a little time to yourself is a very rare commodity in our present set of circumstances. There’s always too much to be done and too few hours in a day to do it. Not that keeping busy is all bad.

We took Ray with us as well, which was the politest way of getting to use his truck, again, without having to ask to borrow it, again. Besides, he has a sort of unassuming rapport with the locals that only comes from being just like one of them. Sometimes that’s useful.

And, we finally found some National Guard troops, by the way -- before they could find us. How ironic is that?

"Your kidding," was all Jared said when we came back and reported in with this information.

Nope. Sarah had been able to tell us where there was a propane storage tank yard about ten miles south of town, so we’d set out in that direction first, and there they were; a small unit of them, stationed outside the facility with their vehicles and their guns. I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised any of us to find them guarding the site of an energy reserve. Or, a potential terrorist target, depending on how you looked at things these days. Involuntarily, I kept picturing someone trying to set off a homemade bomb near one of those neat rows of tanks, and suddenly, the frightening vision of a crater in the earth extending as far north as our own backyard appeared in my mind.

I knew Cody had been hoping to grease the wheels of commerce with a little trade in exchange for the delivery of some propane, but this latest development required a plan with a bit more thought. So, giving ourselves a chance to reevaluate the situation, we retreated to a small local café where the lights were still on.

Inside, it was warm and homey and filled with the smell of real food cooking. You didn’t need to possess Cody’s keen observant, not-to-mention conniving intellect to immediately start wondering, how’d they managed that?

A young waitress appeared the minute we slid into a booth and filled four cups with steaming, fresh, aromatic coffee. For a hushed moment, I thought maybe Shannon was going to faint. Then, the girl began rattling off the menu, which admittedly was not very extensive -- it consisted of three choices -- but the food was good and served up in generous portions. Cody sat watching everyone and everything going on around us with his eyes shifting like a hawk.

Meanwhile, Shannon kept waving the waitress over for refills on his coffee, and calling her "baby girl," and generally flirting with her shamelessly until finally, in some alarm, she fled to find the owner of the place. Great. Now he’s done it, I was thinking. I watched as a man with a curious expression on his face approached our table, fully expecting our asses were about to land on the pavement outside.

Instead, Shannon started flirting with this guy, too, and that actually went over surprisingly well.

(What is it about Shannon and guys who cook? I’m just asking.)

Ray was sitting across from me, keeping his thoughts - if that’s what you could call them - to himself while sopping up the last of his pot roast gravy with a hunk of homemade bread.

"You gonna eat your dessert?" he asked, and gestured casually in my direction. Warm apple pie with a side of vanilla ice cream.

"What, are you crazy?" I laughed, hugging my plate to my chest. I knew Ray and I weren’t making much of a contribution to the needs of the larger agenda, but truth be told, our harmless bickering was helping me feel the closest thing to ‘normal’ I’d felt in a week.

Anyway, from Bobby, the café owner, we were able to find out a few very useful things. Apparently, the Guard stationed nearby liked to frequent his little establishment, which was why we’d found him so well endowed with fresh meat and produce, not to mention Kenya AA. He'd forged a few connections. Then, Bobby introduced Cody to the local lieutenant-in-charge, who lucky for us, was having his lunch break at a nearby table. I tried to put a real business-like look on my face, and sat by listening in silence as Cody felt his way cautiously through their preliminary conversation, not wanting to offer too much too quickly. This was the guy we hoped could be persuaded to approve a delivery of propane for our little community. Well, in fact, almost immediately he offered to do much more than that. He said he’d look into the water situation for us right away, too.

Then, while I watched in amazement, and some embarrassment, Shannon charmed Bobby out of four pounds of his best premium whole bean.

Before heading home, we did forage around a bit like we’d intended. Scavenging here and there. Mostly in abandoned businesses and houses, but already along the main routes things were pretty picked over. Others had been there before us.

As soon as we arrived back at the compound we gave Jared the news about the propane, and the National Guard troops, while he made a survey our spoils. The sight of the coffee set off his radar instantly.

"He just _gave_ it to you?" he demanded skeptically after listening to Shannon’s very abbreviated version of the story. I’ll tell you honestly, I thought I saw Jared’s nose twitch, like he suddenly smelled something foul in the air.

"Nice guy, huh?" Shannon beamed innocently.

"Very," Jared agreed, a large artificial smile plastered to his face. "You know," he wagged an admonishing finger at his brother, and strained his toothy grin a bit wider, "I still remember Indiana."

"Yeah?" Shannon shifted his feet and gave a short, sheepish, if genuine, laugh.

"Yeah!" Jared laughed back, arching his brows.

"Thought maybe you forgot about that."

"Never seem to get the chance!" Jared declared, feigning as much good cheer as the situation could handle.

Hey, I don’t know, and I don’t even ask anymore.

But I swear, it amazes me. As blind as Jared can be to the subject of Eric’s feelings of ‘loyalty’ towards him, the mere suggestion that some strange guy named Bobby had given an overly-generous gift to his brother Shannon was more than enough to get all those red-blooded male corpuscles in an uproar. It was pretty amusing.

Later that evening, while there was still enough daylight, Jared wanted to go over to the farm and check on the bus. It’s a place only about half a mile up the road from here. Walking distance. Cody thought that was a good idea, and also told us that after he’d done a little checking, he suspected they probably had well water up there, since the last northerly structure known to be on Gabriel Crossing’s public line was the Swallows.

All that turned out to be true, and a real break for us, because it means we now have an alternative source of clean drinking water.

At least, until the electricity quits and the pump fails.

\--stop--


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two: "R-evolve"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.*  
> The past gives way to the present. Not every memory sleeps easily, however. Jared and Matt visit the farm where the bus is hidden, and their old life along with it.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.

 

\--------- * --------- * ---------  
 _"It’s the end, here today,_  
 _but I will build a new_  
 _beginning._  
 _Take some time,_  
 _find a place…_  
\--------- * --------- * ---------

　

015/00

Alpha

I don’t try to talk to Matt about Libby anymore, or the rest of his family either for that matter. In all this time since that first night there’s been no word from any of them, and what little news we’ve had from the outside world has mostly all been bad. Which is not encouraging.

I know he still checks his cell phone several times a day. I’ve seen him doing it. Well, we all did at first -- desperately and hopefully, then tenaciously. Then finally, as the days turned into weeks, fearfully. Lately, I catch him doing it in a cloud of numbness, like some kind of ritual cycle he’s afraid to break; like a prayer uttered into an incomprehensible darkness ‘x’ number of times per day.

Today none of the cell phones are working. Usually, some of them will for at least a little while, or over a limited range, but today they are all uniformly silent. Of course, we don’t know why, or if any of them will ever work again.

The one thing we all share in common here is the fact that each of us has lost someone, but Matt, it seems, has lost everyone. Deep inside, I know that’s the likeliest reason why I can’t talk to him about it. The enormity of his loss is too great, too fearsome, and maybe that’s the reason why he doesn’t bring it up with me. Alone in his unbreachable silences, I watch him wrestle with the voids in his life. To Matt, Shannon and I probably appear to have lost next to nothing. Or, at least nothing that we cannot cope with together.

If I thought it mattered, I would tell him I feel as if I have lost another layer of innocence, like a flayed skin. But this isn’t about bearing our scars.

We keep going.

The first time I visited the farm, I found myself standing next to Cody in front of a classic red barn the size of an airplane hanger, or at least it looked that way to me, and not nearly as old or dilapidated as Cody had originally described it. Turns out no animal had ever been sheltered there unless you wanted to count a John Deere. It was basically a barn built to house industrial strength farming equipment, most of which had been sold off when the owner of the farm retired. So, it was not anything like what I had been picturing in my head.

Cody produced a key which he slipped into the locking bar that secured a pair of enormous wooden doors on the side of the building facing the driveway. Then, he and Jack each grabbed one of the doors simultaneously and slid them back in their well-oiled tracks to reveal our tour bus -- and former home away from home -- sitting snug and safe on a clean cement slab.

Beautiful.

Quietly, almost reverently, I stepped into the coolness and twilight of the barn, drew in a short breath of air hinted with diesel, and ran my hand gently over the familiar white side panels and chrome. From the corner of my eye I saw Matt’s long shadow falling across the gravel outside where he’d paused like a pilgrim at the portal’s edge. It made me smile. We were all acting like we’d come upon a temple shrine.

"So tell me," I murmured to Cody, who was walking right beside me. "What did you have to trade with him to persuade him to let you hide it here?"

I knew the time had finally come for us to speak of many things, including tales of stolen narcotics. And I had just begun to wonder suspiciously what else, exactly, Farmer Jones might have been cultivating in his old age to supplement that Social Security check. Since he’d left off with the soybeans, I mean.

"Insulin," Cody answered. "For his wife."

For a moment, I stared at him in total surprise, nearly dumbstruck with incomprehension.

"Wait," I said slowly. "So… when you guys broke into that pharmacy, you were really after insulin?"

"Those pharmacies," Cody replied, emphasizing the plural. "And no," he continued, with an odd smile and a laugh. "We did the break-ins first, so we had no clue. Sorry. Yeah, you’re harboring criminals. Aiding and abetting, it’s an unavoidable fact."

"You’re not my first," I grumbled at him under my breath, but I suspected he already knew that.

"It was Logan who grabbed the insulin along with the syringes from the first place we hit," he shrugged, "before I had the chance to coach him about what kinds of things to really go for."

Logan. Great. My youngest tech and a sort of sorcerer’s apprentice to our main magician, Jack. He’d first come to me as a hungry, blue-eyed, blonde kid with a slightly out-of-control band fixation. Now, apparently, I’d inadvertently introduced him to a life of crime. He was another one like Nate. He barely looked old enough to be out of high school. In fact, I’d just left the two of them outside romping on the lawn like puppies.

"Go and check on the equipment truck," I’d told them. "Okay?" And they took off together like a pair of greyhounds.

Logan had turned out to be one of those inarticulate savants who very quickly got to know our whole set-up the way a lab rat knows his own maze. It was Tomo who’d talked me into hiring him. There wasn’t an instrument we hauled around with us that Logan couldn’t play. But, sometimes I had to wonder if he was capable of writing his own name on the backs of his paychecks.

I turned my face up and blinked at Cody again. "So what you’re saying is it was _dumb luck_ you had the insulin to trade when you needed it?"

"Pretty much," Cody agreed.

"And, Evie… ?"

"Yeah, her too."

Shit, a coincidence like that is almost enough to make me believe in God. For a second. In spite of everything.

Cody told me it just so happened he and Tom Watson (that was the farmer guy’s real name, not "Jones") had shared a lot of the same premonitions and fears about the future right after those first few episodes of Crisis level destruction. The chatter on Cody's CB that night had been borderline panic levels, his attempts to contact his own dispatch had yeilded nothing but static, and although old Tom had been evasive about the sources of his information, basically his conclusions were pretty much the same. Namely, that it was very likely things were going to get a lot worse before they got any better. Assuming, of course, ‘getting better’ was even in the cards, which could easily have been assuming too much. And just like Cody, Tom had also wondered how long the civil order and the medical establishment’s infrastructure would hold out.

Knowing how rapidly his wife’s situation could turn critical, he’d taken the opportunity to secure as large a supply of insulin and syringes from my thieving, miscreant of a bus driver as was practical. But even so, Cody told me, beyond a certain point insulin expires and then it’s useless.

"They took off right after that, trying to reach their daughter’s place in Nevada before all of the roads closed," Cody explained. "She’s a nurse."

I tried to picture an elderly couple I’d never even met rushing around, desperate to make their hasty, anxious exodus. It wasn’t hard. All I had to do was keep watching Cody’s face. Their story was written in his eyes.

"Tom asked me for one other thing before they went. Something stronger, he said, in case worse came to worst and they didn’t make it. You know, if the insulin ran out, and there was no more they could get…"

With that, Cody stopped speaking and looked away. I knew he’d given Tom Watson whatever else it was he’d asked for.

There’s no way we’ll ever know if Tom and his wife got to see their daughter again, or not. It felt strange to find myself caring so much about their fate, and yet know almost nothing about them. Not even what they looked like. There was definitely something a little surreal about standing there in Tom’s barn, surrounded by all his things, and feeling an odd sense of familiarity -- like trespassing on somebody else’s land, and occupying someone else’s life. I took grim comfort in the thought that if the one thing he had feared the most had come to pass, well, at least he didn’t have to keep going on alone.

I was temporarily lost in my thoughts about that when…

"Fuck!" The sudden sound of metal clattering on concrete brought me back to the present.

"Matt?" Off in the far corner by a well-stocked workbench, my bassist was clutching his thumb and swearing.

"Well, we found the tools," Jack remarked dryly.

Cody was already striding towards them. "Let me see," he said with a soft chuckle.

"No. It’s fine," I heard Matt whining defensively.

"Let me see!" Cody insisted, holding out his hand.

"There’s a first aid kit on the bus," I offered, fishing in my pocket for my electronic key.

"There’s a hell of a lot more than that. Now," Cody mumbled.

Fuck me. He wasn’t kidding. Every available surface was covered, no _buried_ in stacks of cartons and boxes… drugs, both prescription and non-prescription…tons of them. And what else? Heat packs, cold packs, bandages, braces, gauze, antiseptics, alcohol, lotions, and tubes of… all kinds of things. The counters and cabinets were bulging with bottles and blister packs and… pills and liquids of every size, shape, and potency. Even the bunks were full of stuff. Holy crap.

"Is there any order to this madness?" I called through the open door, then tried to squeeze my way down an aisle that had already been tight when it was empty. I passed cases of Robitussin, Pedialyte, and Children’s Tylenol.

"Of course." Cody responded, coming up the stairs behind me. I turned just in time to see Matt climb aboard after him, and stare in stunned silence.

"Sit down," Cody gestured to Matt and began searching the cupboards.

" _Where?_ " Matt laughed, still standing on the top step.

"Oh…" Cody considered for a moment before guiding him to his old driver’s seat. Then, armed with peroxide, he began working on the slice in Matt’s finger.

"Ow!" I could hear Matt complaining as I worked my way back towards the lounge.

"Don’t be a wimp!" I yelled to him. Everywhere you looked it was the same; boxes piled to the ceiling.

"Cody, you must have enough stuff stashed here to do brain surgery," I commented. "Were you planning on opening your own hospital?"

"Sadly, no," he answered, wrapping a short length of gauze tape around Matt’s wound. "I don’t even have enough suture for a medium-size laceration." He was shaking his head. "No injectable meds, no IV’s…"

"How important is that?" Suddenly, I felt like I should know more about these things.

"Basically, if you get sick, and you can’t handle oral medication, you’re screwed," he told me. "Just wait till you’ve seen your first real bout with bad water and dysentery."

"I see," I murmured, praying, in fact, that I never would.

"If it’s not something that can be stolen from your corner pharmacy, we don’t have it."

Matt had ambled over to where I was poking through boxes, frowning at his clean, bandaged thumb.

"Boo-boo all better?" I teased.

"No," he grumped and stared into the next carton with me. Disposable enema kits.

"Ugh," I remarked, not wanting to think about the possibilities of giving, or receiving.

"Looks like the good ol’ days of burping out your colon on the Ganges are over," Matt informed me.

"Guess so."

I moved back down the aisle, peering into our old bunks where there were more piles of plastic bottles, and lumpy black garbage bags full of mystery items. All mixed in among the refuse of our last night on tour coming out of San Francisco. It was like looking into someone else’s interrupted life.

"You were able to take all of this in one night?" I questioned Cody.

"Um…no. We’ve added to it whenever we’ve had the opportunity. And as our long-term needs have become clearer."

I wondered what he meant by that, exactly. It seemed like we had a little of everything; Augmentin, Ativan, Benedryl, codeine, Cipro, Percocet…Ritalin… Xanax…

Not every bunk had been used for storage, though. Mine was empty except for my own belongings, but Shannon’s was half full of hand sanitizer and boxes of latex gloves.

"Well," snickered Matt, "that may have been there before." He was kidding, I think, while trying to keep an eye on me, and rummaging around under his own mattress looking for a pair of headphones as well as some other odds and ends he wanted to take back with him.

When I pulled back the curtain on Tomo’s bunk the scent of his former presence there assaulted me, and suddenly he was so alive in my thoughts it was almost like touching him. It went right through me. I don’t mean an odor like the sharp, salty man smell of a guy who’s spent too many hours on stage -- you know we’ve all smelled like that plenty of times. I mean, something more like his unique Tomo scent, made up of everything from the shower soap he preferred to the stuff he used on his hair. As I breathed him in, my chest tightened with a pang of heart-sickness and fear.

I think I must have made a little sound, too, a little gasp, because instantly there was Matt right beside me. Back then, we were all still in some kind of denial about the fact that Tomo was gone, but right at that moment I knew, gone. Knew it right down to the deepest part of my being.

I’m going to interrupt myself here for a little digression, because I have to tell you that for about a week and a half now, in our room at the motel, we’ve been letting a pair of Tomo’s dirty socks just sit on the dresser next to the TV. His toothbrush remains right where he left it by the sink in the bathroom, too. His clothes hang in the closet, except for a pair of twice-worn jeans he tossed over the back of a chair, his guitar…well. Finally, this morning I told Matt I was going to pack up all his things and take them over to the farm to store somewhere. Enough is enough. I just can’t deal any longer with the illusion that he’s going to be coming back any minute to do his laundry.

"I’ll keep his stuff," Matt said gravely.

My first impulse was to tell him I thought that was probably a bad idea, but in the end I said, "Alright." I know that Matt is looking for something -- maybe anything -- to hold on to, but I’m kind of afraid for him, thinking Tomo’s belongings, perhaps, may not be the best choice.

Anyway, where was I?

That evening, when we got back to the compound, the National Guard was there to greet us with their official paperwork, their army issue side arms, and their test kit with which they pronounced our water safe to drink. Gee, thanks so much.

While we were gone, Shannon had been dancing his trademark two-step with a certain Captain Franklin Grayson before I appeared to cut in. You know, on a good day, I’m usually even better than my brother at whoring with guys like Grayson, but that day I just wasn’t in the mood. Fortunately, Cody had the presence of mind to keep his determinedly passive face directly in my sightline the whole time I was letting the bastard ream me out of two of the vehicles on our lot. Calm, Cody’s expression said, stay calm. They were being confiscated, Grayson declared, in the name of the federal government. He can do that, I guess, under out present state of emergency. And then, immediately after that, he proceeded to strip me of a sizeable portion of my autonomy here as well. We are now irrevocably, and without much in the way of our consent, part of the protectorate of Sacramento.

Fucking asshole. In the future I will have as little to do with him as possible.

Once they’d left, there was the usual group catharsis of ranting hysterics and reactionary anger over the ‘stolen’ minivan and 4x4. The tribe was on the warpath, and I couldn’t blame them. At all. But I went and closed myself up in our room alone. There was nothing I felt I could add to all that which would not only serve to make matters worse in the long run.

Shannon, however, followed me and bizarrely, we went off on this tangent where we got into a huge fight about what we were bringing down from the farm -- namely, the empty equipment truck, because we were going to need it to run for supplies -- and what we were leaving up there. Like the instruments, because that life was gone. For good. I thought he understood that. I thought he knew. I distinctly remember the day we’d made that decision together.

I remember that after two frantic days of failing to make any contact whatsoever with our management, or the record company, or a single living soul at the Saltair, I finally turned to my brother and said, "I don’t know, Shan. What do you think?"

As far as we could tell we were completely on our own, out of touch, blockaded in, and going nowhere. The only life we had as of that moment was the one here at Gabriel Crossing.

For an hour he wrestled with his conscience about setting all of those other obligations aside. We weren’t just talking about missing a few performances. This was about letting go of the all the fantasies and the dreams we’d invested our lives in for so many years, not to mention all the people we’d made promises to along the way -- everyone from kids like Nate, who we’d only known for a few weeks, to maybe even each other I suppose.

(Looking back, I wonder if that still might be the unspoken fear that’s been keeping my brother from moving forward. But I don’t know.)

Gradually, our argument ran down and lost energy, our voices grew quieter and our words less salty, and suddenly Shannon was fumbling for his cell phone. In those days, there was still the off chance you might be able to complete a call now and then. He turned aside a little, though not totally away from me, so I could see he was trying to call our grandmother again.

But, like every other answer he’d reached for that day, he couldn’t get connected. It was not for lack of trying. Or a failure of persistence. That was never Shannon’s flaw.

I can see there are, for good or ill, a few remaining simple truths we continue to live with in this marred and altered universe of ours. One of them being this: that the hardest thing to kill in a man is hope.

\-- stop --


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two: "R-evolve"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* The brothers’ bond threatens to break down along with everything else that seems to have fallen apart recently. Meanwhile, the civil authority, or what remains of it, begins to assert itself again. And you know how well Jared responds to authority figures.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.

 

_\--------- * --------- * ---------_   
_"It’s the end, here today,_   
_but I will build a new_   
_beginning._   
_Take some time,_   
_find a place…_   
_\--------- * --------- * ---------_

　

016/00

Beta

Yeah, I remember that fight. That was not a good day for us. Damn Jared.

I mean, one of the things I had meant to talk to him about, _had_ to talk to him about, was Evie. She was getting sicker. To the point where even somebody like me could tell her situation was becoming urgent, but we got caught up in all that other shit and I completely forgot. Fuck. I wasn't exactly in the mood to go back and try to bring it up with him right after our blow out. Figured it would probably be a waste of my breath, so instead I went down to her room to look in on her first, and there was Cody, who was definitely the better person for the job anyway.

"Are you feeling any better?" he was asking, and she was saying, "Yeah, a little I think."

She’s a brave kid and all. Very, in fact. She’d been slugging along day after day without telling anyone how really bad she must have been feeling, or asking for special treatment, but in the long run I think that trying to be brave had just been working against her. This whole attitude about toughing things out in silence and sucking it up has its fucking limits, if you ask me. And in Evie’s case we’d exceeded them. It was only making her sicker. I got the impression she didn’t want to distract the rest of us from our group survival mission, or use up too many of our joint resources. And we’d all been playing along like "’at a girl, that’s the spirit" -- well, the hell with that now, I remember thinking.

There have been certain times in my life, other occasions, when I’ve done some stuff like, you know when you try to talk to people about their issues? Their self-defeating behaviors and their needs and addictions, and the choices they’ve made? I mean, it's not like you can make anybody do anything they don’t want to. People are always going to do exactly what they please, but sometimes the right word at the right moment can help someone put their feet on a different, less self-destructive path… here’s the thing though. I’d never done anything even remotely like this, where the issue of the drug in question was _insulin_. And where the fight was not against a self-destructive impulse, but about somebody’s misbegotten sense of nobility and self-sacrifice.

Whole different ball game. Major difference. Anyway, if she’d asked, I’d have told her I thought it was about time for her to start making decisions based on her own needs for a change. Time to start thinking about herself a little bit. Way more than time, but she didn’t ask.

So, Cody and I spent the night in her room along with Mikayla and Sam and Jenna, taking turns waking up to check on her. Making sure she hadn’t slipped into a coma. Did I sleep under those conditions? No, I did not. By first daylight I was so groggy and rumpled I felt positively hung-over. Like I’d been out on an all-nighter and had slept in my clothes. There was no question about waiting any longer at that point. I needed to talk to Jared. So, I slipped out the door in my bare feet and crept down the gritty concrete walk towards the room we normally shared with Matt, letting myself in quietly. I was guessing Matt would still be sleeping, but he was already gone. Probably over at the diner with Jack getting ready for breakfast. Jared was up too, despite it being barely past dawn. There we were, just the two of us staring at each other. I let the door close silently behind me.

His eyes nearly impaled me right on the spot where I stood waiting expectantly, thinking to myself, here it comes.

"Where were you?"

Not, where the _fuck_ where you, like I might have anticipated. His voice was as cold and immovable as an iceberg, though. Which I can tell you from a couple decades experience is much much worse than it is when he’s swearing at me.

"Since when did we start checking up on each other every fucking second?" Damn, damn, damn. Why did I say that? Wrong approach. I knew it the moment the words came out of my mouth, but I guess we were both still pissed off from yesterday. And scared; that’s the part neither one of us was talking about.

"Where. Were. You."

"With Cody." There. Satisfied? I thought about how disgusting I looked, and probably smelled, after last night. "And Mike and Sam…" I added.

"Cody." He rocked on his feet a little, knowing about the bus now since he’d been up to the farm the day before. What was he thinking? The worst. I was sure of it. Could feel the trust breaking down between us again after all these years.

For one wicked second, I let him continue to wonder if maybe Cody had smuggled back a little something from our hoarded stash for a private party, certain that must have been the nightmare that was going through my brother’s head. As if I hadn’t learned a fucking thing during all the earlier incarnations of our partnership about what fills the empty places in your life, and what doesn’t.

"…taking care of Evie," I amended finally, offering him that last essential detail, trying not to sound bitter.

This is the part about what's happening I find almost too disturbing for words. I mean, this whole situation with the Crisis is destroying everything, and not just the social order or our ideas about governmental restraint, if you get what I mean. I hated Jared at that moment for losing his faith in me -- even for a second -- when, honestly, our faith in each other seemed like the only sure thing we still had left in the world.

"Evie?" He shifted gears on a dime. "Is she alright?"

As angry as I was, I still had to admire the way he could stay focused on what was most pressing.

"No, she’s not."

Our stand off was temporarily forgotten as he pushed past me and hurried down the motel walkway towards her room.

"So what’s up?" He barged right in without so much as an "are you decent?" which at that hour of the morning nobody ever is. The sight of Jared’s unshaven face appearing suddenly and unceremoniously in the middle of the room set off one hell of a flurry of feathers in the henhouse, I can tell you.

"I can’t keep her blood sugar under control," Cody replied simply from where he sat by Evie’s bedside, offering her small bites of a granola bar.

"How bad is that?"

His face screwed up in a frown. "Well, I’d like to test her for ketoacidosis, but I can’t. Don’t have the strips." He looked up at Jared and explained, "It’s a complication, and not a nice one. She needs to see a doctor, and maybe even be in the hospital. She should be eating a better diet. You know, she’s just been eating whatever we’ve been eating, and that…" He held his hands up in the air and shook his head.

Cody’s frustrated sense of helplessness was plain. And well, if there’s anything my brother hates more than feeling out of control in a situation, I haven’t discovered what it is yet.

"Okay," he stated with determination. "Then we’ve got to get her to a doctor. In Sacramento. They want us to be part of their protectorate, they can start taking care of my people now. Today."

"I’ll get her there. I can take her," Sam spoke up for the first time.

All this time I’d been watching her out of the corner of my eye. Like everyone else last night, she’d slept in her clothes. Now, she was taking off her bra beneath her over-sized T-shirt and putting on a fresh one -- arms poked in and out of sleeves, elbows bulged here and there under fabric, straps slipped down and dangled out the bottom until finally she popped the frilly thing off from under her shirt, and nonchalantly holstered on a new one. More discreet contortions followed as she tucked everything into place. A true feat of feminine engineering had been accomplished amidst a room full of men with relatively little fuss and no flashing. Amazing. I was vaguely aware that I’d been staring.

Jared was watching Evie thoughtfully. "Okay," he said, at last. "I can ask Craig and Josh if they want to go with you. I’m not sending you alone."

We didn’t know Craig or Josh all that well when we first got here, but they were definitely good guys who knew how to pitch in and do a solid day’s work. They’d been part of the crew Aaron had hired for our San Francisco concert, and ever since we’d arrived at Gabriel Crossing, all they'd ever seemed to talk about were the possible ways to get back home. So close and yet so far, you know? Then, after Aaron had disappeared with their ride, and Tomo, I think their hopes had begun to dwindle. So, I was pretty sure they’d jump at the chance to go with the girls.

While the four of them packed, Ray siphoned off enough gas from our other vehicles to fill the tank of Sam’s car. He ran the engine and checked all the fluid levels to satisfy himself they wouldn’t have any trouble with breakdowns on the road.

Meanwhile, Jared and I went back to our own room again, and unfortunately we picked up our heated discussion pretty much right where we’d left off. Things between us got beyond rational very quickly, fueled I’m sure by my sleep depravation and Jared’s anxiety over Evie’s failure to thrive. I swear, I don’t know how many more losses Jared can handle in his life right now without getting a little something back from the universe in return. I do understand that for him, somehow, this all has to do with Tomo. I just don’t know how to fix it.

Jack had packed up a box for the travelers with lunch and snacks and bottled water. Jared copied out all the information he had about our new, official arrangement with the government in Sacramento, including our community’s registration number, in the hope that it would be enough to get them through safely and entitle Evie to some medical attention.

We all said our goodbyes and good lucks with a lot of hugs and a few tears, and there were the usual promises to stay in touch that people always make at heartfelt partings like that. Don’t I know it well. I hoped against hope we all fucking meant it, even though this time, there was no way of knowing whether or not we’d be able to keep those promises, no matter how good our intentions. But you know how it is. Sometimes people don’t want to look back.

I really really do hope that we hear from them again, though, and soon. Just to find out if they’re okay. Ad so we know they made it, and they’re safe and alright. It would do Jared a world of good to know he didn’t lose these people, too, in the confusion and the smoke of our post apocalyptic oblivion. Just to have some confirmation that he’d made the right decision, and had done the right thing.

Honestly? It wouldn’t hurt me any either.

 

\---------

018/00

Gamma

Foraging has become a way of life for us. It’s really scavenging, to tell the truth. In another life you would have called it stealing, plain and simple. The only thing that separates us from the highway pirates everybody lives in fear of these days is that we don’t hold people up at gunpoint. Most often we stick to the empty places -- the back roads where the homes have been abandoned -- and commit our nominal crimes in anonymity, crawling and sifting through the refuse of other people’s battered lives.

The farm turned out to be a real boon for us. Besides having its own well, Tom Watson had also kept a fuel tank on the property a good distance from the house and fairly well hidden. No doubt he once used it to run his farm equipment, but I guess it was a convenience he wasn’t willing to part with after he retired, because we found it almost full.

There was a good supply of tools in the barn, too. The kind of lifetime collection that brought tears to Ray’s eyes the first time he saw it. And on a little hook in an inconspicuous place over the workbench, there was a set of keys that opened the back door to the house.

Inside we found a treasure trove of all kinds of homey comforts we’d been doing without. But best of all, there was a chest freezer on the lower level still humming away, and inside there must have been most of a half a hog, cut and wrapped, and the majority of a beef hind quarter.

I should note there’s also a private lane on the property too, that leads way off passed the woods towards the back. One day we followed it, driving Ray’s truck, and discovered it dumped out onto a county route we'd been cut off from previously due to a roadblock. So, that’ll give us some new territory to explore and exploit.

Anyhow, after that first evening’s visit and reconnaissance at the farm we wandered back down to the motel, and while we were still a good distance off we spotted the Guard there waiting for us. When we got up a little closer, when I could see things a bit more clearly, I told Jared the guy talking to Shannon -- the one who seemed to be in charge -- was not our lieutenant from the café. Without much discussion, Cody and Jack jogged ahead to introduce themselves, and hopefully to create a slight distraction, which gave Shannon the chance to fall back to us and report in.

"What’s he like?" Jared asked as we approached, keeping his expression impassive.

"A few short of a platoon," Shannon mumbled, still wearing a trace of that vacant, congenial smile he puts on for record company executives.

I tried chatting up one of the guys in uniform and was stunned to find out that what was left of Los Angeles was mostly under the control of rival gangs. The government, such as it still existed, had virtually abandoned the city to thugs and gangsters.

For some reason, while I was listening to that piece of news in a fog of silence, it sort of registered with me that the weapons I was staring at sure looked like M4’s. Not exactly regulation issue for home based National Guard troops. Once, while Jared was working on a film about arms dealers, I’d learned more about guns and weaponry than I thought I’d ever want to know in this life. Now, I wondered if Jared had taken in this not-so-minor detail as well, and what he made of it.

I focused back on the conversation just in time to hear Captain Grayson tell Jared we would be getting our propane as soon as we could be worked into the delivery schedule. Then, he began flipping a bunch of papers in Jared’s face and started quoting the 2007 Defense Authorization Act at some length, and finished by announcing he was confiscating two of our vehicles, accordingly.

The first thing I’d probably have said to the guy would’ve been something like, "Why are you telling me? They ain’t mine." But property ownership is a nebulous concept to a guy like Jared, the Master of All He Surveys.

"Well, you’ll do what you must," he responded in a tightly controlled tone, "but I have to warn you, we’ve been very short of gasoline, and the tanks have probably been siphoned dry."

It was kind of a lie, or at least an exaggeration. Yeah, we’d siphoned some of the tanks, but things weren’t that bad yet. He was negotiating for time, or maybe more fuel, or _something_ as far as I could tell.

Time was up, though. I glanced around at the Guard troops, who had positioned themselves at intervals around the lot like they might have known to expect trouble. Without even bothering to ask for the keys and with amazingly little difficulty, two of the guys broke into the locked doors of a minivan and a brand new Dodge Ram 4x4 quad cab, then subdued their car alarms expertly. Nice and professional, just as if they did this sort of thing for a living. Before another minute had passed, both hoods had been popped and the engines were purring smoothly.

The tribe stirred irritably, but uncertainly, while Jared held his ground in front of Grayson firm as a rock. If the owners of the vehicles in question were present, they must have felt like we were being raided a gunpoint again. But, they kept silent.

"I think I can solve your gasoline problem for you," the captain drawled casually. "There’s a fair supply farther north closer to the city, but you’ll need local ration tickets to buy any. I’ll see that you get some."

"That would be good of you," Jared replied in a manner that suggested ‘you owe me’ more that ‘thank you.’

Two things crossed my mind. If Grayson -- who _seemed_ to be short of military vehicles -- knew we were members of a rock band stranded out here in the middle of nowhere, why did he never think to inquire about our tour bus? And besides that -- or maybe because of it -- the other thing I wondered was, what exactly did he need a non-regulation, unmarked, relatively anonymous Dodge 4x4 and a minivan for? Not that we’d ever find out, but…

Oh, there was one other matter he'd come to discuss. The business of aligning with a protectorate. Apparently, we’re so close to both of the new geographic borders, we had a choice of sorts: San Francisco, or Sacramento.

Jared listened to Grayson’s ultimatum about subjugating ourselves to one or the other of the two jurisdictions as dispassionately as possible. He paused for an instant before answering, probably to tug on the reins of his notorious temper which had to have been strained to its limit by that time. But, the tribe must have taken his momentary silence as an invitation for discussion, because immediately all around us a lively debate began, weighing out the pros and cons. Some of the most eager voices were making a case for throwing in our lot with San Francisco.

After something like less than a minute of not really listening to any of them, Jared declared, "Sacramento."

In my mind, there was no other choice to be made. Not really.

Later on, Jared said he was sorry if he was being too dictatorial. But, that’s a lie. He wasn’t one little bit sorry. One of the virtues of having authority is being able to use it.

And just like that, the thing was done.

Grayson wrote down ‘Sacramento’ on the form while the tribe stood around shuffling their feet in a meek, surprised silence.

Surprised, that is, all except for us guys and the Echelon girls who knew exactly what was in Jared’s heart the moment he said it. I knew. At least as well as I know the contents of my own soul.

No man left behind.

Because as long as there are still possibilities to cling to, I’ll believe.

 

\----------

019/00

Alpha

When’s the last time you saw Mexican aid workers crossing the border into Southern California to offer assistance, and clean water, to desperate American refugees? (I am not even kidding.)

They’d been mobilized and sent by the World Health Organization of the United Nations headquartered in Geneva. From them we learned that the UN in New York was unreachable and unresponsive. Why, I don’t know. That’s as much information as we were given.

Good old Captain Grayson had told us to expect them sometime "in the next few days" (leaving out the part about the UN), and said that they would be bringing us the official documents we’d need to take along to Sacramento when we registered for our first Aligned Community Aid Rations Distribution. Their little mission unit arrived in a white jeep, bearing gifts; cases of bottled water since they’d been informed we were intermittently having problems. And soap. Hallelujah.

In her beautifully accented, grammatically flawless English, Elena Rios, the social worker in charge, advised us to hold on to the bottled water as long as we knew what was coming through the taps was safe for right now. But the next time we had a problem, the children at least should get nothing to drink except bottled water until we could have purity testing done again.

Meanwhile, the guys who had come along with her went around giving everybody tips on how to deal with a questionable water supply. Like using ordinary coffee filters to remove particulate matter, or in a pinch, even clean white cotton socks. And they gave us some bottles of tablets to put into the filtered water that would make it safer to drink. Safer, they said, not completely safe if you were listening to them carefully. The other alternative was boiling, if we had sufficient fuel.

Right off, I’d been introduced to Elena as the community’s leader. Cordially, we settled down to fill out a stack of forms required for aid registration with the provisional Protectorate. When she asked, for the sake of her paperwork, what sort of council or system of self-governance our community utilized, I informed her with a minimum of irony that it was a "benevolent dictatorship." An assertion that caused her to raise her eyes and look me over slowly. I thought I saw a faint glimmer of recognition in her stare. So, I smiled. Her pen scratched lightly over the surface of her paper. We moved on to the next item on her list.

"When you get into Sacramento, your community aid pick-up site is at Methodist-Mercy General Hospital South. That’s the closest one this side of town. There’s a huge parking lot there where you’ll see they have a set up. Any time you need clean drinking water, they should be able to supply you with it, only don’t take your own containers. They’ll give you official ones. They’re picky about that. This is the same location where you’ll be getting your Distribution flour and cooking oil for the month."

She handed me a little black and white booklet that spelled out all the rules.

"Wow."

"Yeah. And, you’ll find out where your Protectorate certified farmers’ market is located, too. That’s where you’ll be allowed to shop…"

"Allowed?" Goodbye land of the free.

"Uh-huh. And they’ll give you a document telling you when to show up, because you can only be admitted on your assigned days…"

And so long home of the brave. The sinking feeling in my stomach was starting to turn icy. "What about black markets?" I asked, mustering my courage. She glared at me.

"…and give you your coupon books." The hard look in her eyes said she could not discuss the subject of black markets with me. Which strongly suggested there probably were some very active ones that wouldn’t be too hard to find.

"And they’ll tell you what sort of currency they are accepting."

"Such as?"

"US legal tender. For now," she mumbled. "You may also choose to bring along certain other material goods to trade for market points. It’s all explained in the booklet. You can pick up a list of what’s currently being accepted for trade on your first market day."

In less that five minutes, I was up to my ass crack in a bureaucratic paper storm. When she finally got through with me, I was feeling more than a little overwhelmed by everything and went looking for Shannon. But already plans were forming in my head.

In the meantime, a propane truck had showed up, as promised, and made a delivery here and at the diner across the street. We could all look forward to hot showers and a hot supper. Shannon was waving a handful of gasoline ration tickets at me that had been dropped off, also courtesy of Captain Grayson. So I guess the honorable commandant was as good as his word for some things.

I’d hardly had a chance to say two words to my brother, though, when the sound of blaring car horns and waves of vocal commotion washed over us coming from somewhere out on the main road, just beyond the motel driveway. Without warning, three or four vehicles full of gesticulating arms and howling humans swung on to our lot. Not surprisingly, the tribe scooted for cover instantly. Doors were slamming and moms were screaming for their children all up and down the row of motel rooms.

I was about to call a general alarm when suddenly Matt began sprinting _towards_ the noisy caravan, and between one heartbeat and the next, my brain registered a familiar, stereophonic melody and bass line drowning out the rest of the noise. Car stereo. The Mission.

I couldn’t believe it. The freakin’ Mars Army had arrived, or so it seemed.

Flying like a human missile, Shannon threw his body heedlessly across the hood of the lead car. He was screaming into the windshield and beating on it with his fists. Hopefully, this was someone he knew, I was thinking, otherwise his actions might be taken for a declaration of war. When the driver side door swung open, its occupant sprang out and launched himself into my brother’s arms. Goddamn if it wasn’t Mike, his drum tech, who’d stayed behind to spend some time at his sister’s place that last fateful night in San Francisco. Originally, he’d been planning on catching up with us in Utah the next day, and then the world went to hell.

Three real cars and a Mini Coup disgorged themselves of nineteen raving, hollering, tattooed lunatics who nearly trampled us in gleeful abandon. My guys came tumbling out of their rooms and streaked across the parking lot, whooping and dancing their little ‘happy dances’ in greeting. Under normal circumstances, I’ve noticed people will usually show a certain amount of awed regard for the sanctity of my person, but at the moment I was being knocked off my feet in an undiluted outpouring of pure love.

"How the hell are you guys?!!!" "Where the fuck were you?!!" "How did you even find us?" "Hey! Where’s Tomo?"

To the last question, I answered simply that he’d gone into Sacramento about a week earlier with Aaron, taking an injured woman to the hospital. And we hadn’t heard back from them yet.

Actually, that explanation didn’t meet with too much skepticism, or surprise.

Over a hastily assembled meal of fruit, biscuits, and tea, we got the highlights of their story. For days, ever since the night of the San Francisco concert, they’d been stuck in a transient housing hell of overbooked hotels just off the interstate, unable to get through the Highway Patrol’s check points and on into Sacramento; not allowed to turn back either. Frustrated and terminally bored, they’d engaged in a little cautious snooping around, trying to find an escape clause from their predicament. Eventually, that had brought several of my stranded Believers together. They found Mike, for example, still trying - misguidedly - to make his way to us in Salt Lake City. Then, they crossed paths with Sam and her cohorts.

Newly armed with information about our community here at Gabriel Crossing, and more than a little moxie, they waited for an unfamiliar patrolman to turn up on one of the duty shifts and fed him their tale of woe. They cried when they told him about how much they missed our tight-knit, mismatched, extended "family," and gave him our new official protectorate registration number. And then they flashed their wristbands and tattoos at him. Aw-w, my poor, deviant, ethically challenged little pack of strays and orphans. They said they wanted to "go home."

The whole thing must have made me sound like even more of a mad cult leader than people usually make me out to be, but it worked. They managed to talk their way back into Braeburn County, and immediately headed straight for the compound. Probably the Highway Patrol wanted nothing more than an excuse to be rid of them.

We were ecstatic to hear that, after a slight delay, Sam, Evie and the guys had been escorted through the barricades, and sent on their way into the city.

Well, considering the level of regulatory interference we had all encountered over the last few days, I concluded one thing: Sacramento was not another LA. Not at all. Which I had gathered, but now I also had tangible proof. And a small sense of relief. And a faint stirring of something else I didn’t dare to deal with yet.

Later that afternoon, I gathered up my command staff to discuss the subject of finding room assignments for the newcomers. It was going to be tight. The gamer's cave was going to have to go, but nobody was really objecting to the sacrifice. This time, we were careful to consult with Sarah as well.

Jack joined us in our room that night, grouching at Matt not to steal all the blankets, and when they were finally settled, he reached to turn out the light.

I fell into bed in the dark and bunched up the covers until they completely surrounded me. For the first time in nights and nights, I felt Shannon creep across the mattress to lie down beside me, His cool hand trailed along my back and over my shoulder. I could sense a familiar hesitation in him. He wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the right words, which happens frequently with Shannon whenever his emotions are getting the best of him.

I didn’t want to say or do anything to encourage the flicker of hope about Tomo I knew he was keeping secreted in his heart. Not yet, when there was no good reason. So I remained silent. I couldn't bear to let him stir up things inside me, either, like new flame from old ashes. Better to bank down the fire for what might turn out to be an interminable night.

"It’s okay," he whispered at last, his mouth so close to the back of my neck his breath disturbed the twists of hair that were tangled there.

No, it’s not, Shan. It’s not okay, but it’s a little better than it has been.

In the next bed, Matt’s light, contented breathing told me he was drifting off to sleep. Around my heart, I felt a sudden grip of protective concern for him and his ragged vulnerability; for my Matthew and his plain, honest goddamn fucking sweetness. I can’t bear to see him hurt anymore. Like Shannon, my love for him is all mixed up with a thousand other loves I have and hold dear. The distant and near ones we left behind when we set out on the road, my new love for everyone sheltered under the roof of this place, and all the rest -- god knows -- wherever in the world they may be now.

But the most confusing and deeply ensnared of all these is the one other love in our room tonight, so close to me I can feel the heat of its reckoning burn right through me. Here it is, now like always and forever, constant in its passion and persistence. The love that never seems able to find the words.

Or maybe he can, but thinks it’s better if I don’t hear them.

\-- stop --


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two: "R-evolve"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* Jared’s really feeling the strain of his role as leader. Matt and Shannon head out to Sacramento to pick up the tribe’s first aid distribution. While they are there, they get a look at the new world order, and find something more -- and something less -- than what they went for.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.

_\--------- * --------- * ---------_   
_"It’s the end, here today,_   
_but I will build a new_   
_beginning._   
_Take some time,_   
_find a place…_   
_\--------- * --------- * ---------_

 

　

021/00

Alpha

The day after we’d gone to explore the farm, I decided it wasn’t safe to leave everything we had up there unattended any longer. Even though the house and barn were hidden relatively far back from the road, a good distance down an obscure lane hugged on either side by a cloak of trees, it still didn’t seem smart that nobody was minding the store, so to speak.

So, all us guys without family obligations started taking turns sleeping at the farm in a rotation. Including Shannon and me. We’d spend an eerie night or two, listening vigilantly to the strange, nocturnal noises made by all the small creeping things that populated the almost unnatural darkness up there. And since we didn’t want to attract the attention of any vehicle traffic on the road, we would try not to use too many electric lights after sundown. These days, it’s a reasonable assumption that anyone out cruising the highways after dark is probably up to no good. I think the thing that contributed the most to our feeling that we were in some kind of horror movie came from trying to get by alone together in that murky semi-darkness. I kept jumping at the sight of my own distended shadow flickering in the halo of light from our single oil lamp. At first, nobody stayed up there all the time, 'cause after a while it would start playing with your head.

Then later, after the arrival of Mike and the Mars Army, things got ridiculously over-crowded at the Swallows, and about a half-dozen of my guys came to me offering to make the farm their permanent home. At the time, I was about ready to take Shannon and go with them, and leave the Swallows for Sarah to manage on her own. Hey, you know she’d been doing a perfectly good job of it for a hell of a long time before we arrived.

Because here was, and is, the problem -- whenever I’m around, as if there isn’t enough for me to do, everyone’s always expecting me to deal with all their inane little domestic issues. Like the resident paterfamilias. Nobody can remember how to make a simple decision for themselves anymore, I swear. Well, there are definitely things they need to learn how to take care of on their own again. I know the uncertainty about our future is overwhelming, even paralyzing. I could absolutely do with a lot less of that myself. But, it’s time everybody got a grip on this new life and just started dealing with it

Like, the other day I was ambushed by a delegation of perfectly serious-minded young women seeking an audience to discuss the severe shortage of, ah… feminine hygiene products. Something Cody must have overlooked as non-essential when he was looting our future welfare out of the grasp of Walgreens. And probably not the thing Matt has our foragers putting at the top of their list of items to bring back with them from a hard day’s scavenging.

Well, what the hell am I supposed to do about it? A few weeks ago it was disposable diapers, and toilet paper the week after that. Get this. The disposable life is gone. What did your grandmothers do?

They wrinkled their noses at me, having already thought of that themselves, and hoped I would have a better solution. Oh, you mean from my vast background of personal experience? Reality factor, please. I thought I could hear the smothered sound of Shannon’s snickering coming from somewhere behind me.

Anyway, I was feeling uncomfortable with the idea of splitting up the community, half here and half there, and of being out of touch someday over at the farm with the ‘men folk’ when I was really needed down at the compound. That is, until this morning when the inevitable, I suppose, happened.

I woke to the irritating noise of some new kind of pandemonium involving the sound of a woman’s sustained, high-pitched shrieking plus a number of agitated, aggressive male voices, none of them very distinct. A foreboding sense of déjà vu joggled me to consciousness. I was so tired. While I was still surfacing through the lighter layers of sleep, I realized I must have been nearly comatose when the ruckus first began and it had already been going on for a while. So, like walking in at the middle of a movie, it was pretty hard for me to sort everything out.

Shannon turned his head about the same time my eyes opened, his hair tickling me underneath my nose. We’d been sleeping practically on top of each other -- when did that happen? I’d gone to bed the night before, early and alone. And exhausted. At some point during my long, blank period of unconsciousness my brother must have snuck into bed beside me, but I couldn’t remember when. Couldn’t remember a single thing since the moment my head hit the pillow. Now, it was daylight.

"Jesus fucking Christ… "

My eyes followed the sound of a muffled voice coming from the next bed where Matt was lying with two pillows and a knot of blankets pulled over his head. I can tell you that during the last couple of days, no one had worked harder than Matt, or slept less. Beside him, Jack sat up abruptly and glanced around anxiously in a thoroughly befuddled daze. A few more barely comprehensible swear words came grumbling out through the crack of air space Matt had left for himself under the covers.

I hopped out of bed and into my jeans, feeling concerned, but -- something about the sound of this particular, latest furor didn’t leave me panicking.

"Jack?"

"Mm-m?" He was rubbing his eyes, and straining himself into a state of alertness.

"Coffee?"

"Yeah."

Jack’s another good guy. No bitching and moaning about whose turn it was to start breakfast. I knew he’d get right to it.

As soon as I peeked out the door, I could tell all the commotion was coming from someplace down towards the far end of our little row of motel rooms. Somewhere beyond where Jenna, Mikayla and a few of the new girls were staying, and on along the walk past… suddenly I realized I was looking at the spot right in front of Nate and Logan’s door. Uh-oh.

What now? From where I stood, I had a clear, unobstructed view of a near-to-violent emotional little family drama playing itself out just under the covered walkway in front of the building. I am so not ready for this, I thought irritably, knowing I wasn't even halfway awake yet. Reluctantly, I hastened towards the scene of the… crime.

Here are the pertinent details I was able to observe. First, the cast: a hysterical mother, an enraged father, a wailing teenage daughter approximately fifteen years of age, give or take. Plus, two of our roadies, Will and Jeff, trying their best to keep ‘Dad’ and my half-witted, good for nothing, under-aged, shit for brains, merch guy Nate, carefully separated.

(Insert the sound of me groaning, here.)

When Nate had moved out of our room a couple weeks ago, he'd settled into another one only a few yards away with Logan, Will and Jeff. All of them roadies and go-fers; all of them roughly the same age. So, of course they wanted to bunk together. Nothing about that struck me as strange.

Well, I guess it wasn’t long before the situation in their room had degenerated into something like an Animal House, or the closest thing to it you could imagine given our present circumstances. Shannon told me later they’d worked out a whole set of signs and signals between themselves which they employed discreetly whenever one of them need to use the room alone for a few hours. (And you should picture my dick-headed brother grinning at me the entire time he’s telling me this, acting as if he thinks it sounds like a good idea to him, too.) Anyway, the question I was being confronted with now, and rater rudely I might add, was how I could have let that whole development slip under my radar?

How indeed. You know, I’ve never considered it part of my personal responsibility to be the arbiter of other people’s sexual intentions and inclinations. Or to go around checking to make sure all the boys are wearing clean underwear and brushing their teeth after meals. Most days, it’s everything I can do to ensure that everybody here is safe, getting fed, and drinking clean water.

So, it amused me that of all the things we’d been through since the Crisis, this morning’s discovery of elopement and deflowering was by far the worst possible event poor Mamacita could ever imagine having to deal with. I was tempted to suggest _now_ might be the appropriate time to jettison the emphasis on pre-apocalyptic standards of morality, we had survival issues to deal with that took priority. But...

Obviously, I did not have the proper attitude to try to intervene in the situation since I was having a hard time taking it seriously. The teary, bedraggle, red-eyed daughter was throwing me imploring glances that suggested the only honorable way out of her predicament was suicide. Well, hang on there a minute, Juliet.

"Where’s Sarah?" I heard myself asking.

Anyway, here’s the upshot of all that. Basically, the moms with young daughters don’t really want to be housed in a part of the compound which is also occupied by families with teenage boys anymore. Guess they’re worried it makes the booty and the temptation a little too accessible. Which, for me, begs the question just how many ‘parts’ do they think there are to this communal living experience, this dwelling? We’re all packed in here like rats on a ship at sea.

*Also interestingly, by quirk of assumption and definition, I suppose this means Nate, probably Logan, Jeff, and maybe even Will, too, are at present being categorized socially as "my" -- and possibly Shannon’s -- teenage boys. How weird is that? For the moment, I’m choosing not to over-analyze that perception.*

Furthermore, a ‘teenage boy’ has been defined as any young man (and I use the term loosely) who has reached his fourteenth birthday. We are not actually talking about a lot of kids here, specifically, but they want them all moved out of the family quarters. Today. And the new plan is to bunk them with the rest of the single men up on the farm instead.

Oh. Here’s a recipe for disaster if I ever heard one. What are people thinking? They’re not, clearly. We’re all being stampeded to a decision, guided by the hindsight of a few very distraught parents who are ready to call out the _marines_ over a pair of perfectly normal kids taking a little midnight dip in nature’s adolescent hormone pool. To myself, I’m thinking -- um, yeah, and can't you just imagine the dunk ‘n’ tumble olympics that's gonna begin as soon as you’ve sequestered a bunch of barely post-pubescent boys in that high octane, testosterone enriched, exclusively male domain over at the farm? It’s already like a fucking _hot spring_ up there. And I’m trying to picture myself calmly mediating the fallout from that.  
  
But, I can tell nobody else is thinking what I’m thinking. Yet. So, I figure I’ll keep my thoughts to myself for now, and we’ll deal with what’s coming next when it happens.

Besides, I have more important concerns on my mind today. This is the day we go to pick up the first of our community aid rations in Sacramento. I have the notarized requisition right here in front of me and now I have to choose the men I’m sending with the truck, and those who will stay behind. In a way, I’ve made my decision already.

But I keep thinking about Tomo and Aaron, and wishing to god I knew what happened to them…

I had wanted to go myself and leave Shannon here at the compound, except I haven’t given him an away mission since the day he came home with that damn coffee. I know it weakens his standing with the others to have them think I don’t trust him to go off on his own again without me.  
  
So, in the end I know I’ll decide to stay behind with Jack and Eric, and I will send Shannon in my place -- with Cody and Matt, and probably Ray as well. And Nate, who was always so good with inventory. Then, lastly, I’ll send Will, because he’s easily the most mature of the puppies. All he needs is some opportunities to prove himself, so I’m going to give him that.

We’re assuming the route between the checkpoint and the city is safe enough, but I worry about the distance between Gabriel Crossing and the Highway Patrol. I know it’s broad daylight. And I realize Sam and the others made it safely, but like Matt, I’ve secretly wondered what the hell Cap’n Frank and his road warriors -- with their M4 carbines and our confiscated vehicles -- are up to. Are they lying in wait somewhere in their modest, hopelessly middle-class minivan planning to flush out some highway pirates?… Or are they, in fact, the real highway pirates? It’s a disturbing thought, and it nags at me.

I can’t afford to think about that any more right now, though. I do, however, need a few minutes to pull myself together. Then I’ll go out and give them my decision, and I will be able to do it properly and rationally. I’ll smile at them, and say all the right things.

Because when I put this aid requisition into Shannon’s hands, I want to appear to do it confidently. I don’t want him, or any of the others, to read one single thing in my eyes except absolute certainty.

 

\---------

021/00

Gamma

If you ask me, I think perhaps the first clear indicator that points to the total breakdown of modern society as we know it is when men can’t remember where to take a piss. These days, no unadorned city wall is safe from their primal instinct for scent marking. They’ll unzip it, and hose down the curb anytime, on any occasion, anywhere they stand.

All I can say is if my mother had ever caught one of us boys doing any such thing in a public place - not that I’m pretending we never did, but - well, I wouldn’t be here writing this today.

Jared, for one, I will tell you, isn’t entirely housebroken in this regard. Maybe I should say not even close. It really wasn’t until the age of video phones that he finally got this particularly undesirable territorial behaviour of his under control. Now, it seems all the patient progress I’d made with him on the subject has been lost again in this new era of uncertain water supplies.

We’d made our way into Sacramento alright, found our aid distribution point, and now we were standing right outside the entryway doors to Methodist South’s emergency department, because I wanted to use a proper restroom. I make no apologies. Personally, I was finding it pretty disgusting that the whole exterior of the building smelled like an alley behind a bar.

"Maybe it’s just as well we didn’t bring him with us," I told Shannon. "He’d be off his leash and running in circles."

Shannon nearly choked, trying so hard not to laugh out loud that he ended up snorting at me instead.

I walked inside alone and found myself wandering through a vast, interior waiting room crammed with wall-to-wall humanity; everything from the merely bored to the truly suffering. The stifling odor of illness and unwashed bodies was nearly overpowering. I looked around for any sign of a medical attendant, but there was no one. Not even at the registration desk. The whole place seemed like little more than a forgotten way station between nowhere and never.

Finally, I noticed one little old guy in blue scrubs slowly passing out bottles of water to expressionless people who were showing him their white hospital wristbands. Carefully, I made my way towards him stepping gingerly over prone bodies, and around countless others who had simply grown inert with tedium. He pointed wordlessly to a hallway that branched off to the left in response to my inquiry about a bathroom. I found it easily, just a couple of doors down.

And in there, at least, things were clean. There was soap in the dispensers over the sinks, but all the paper towels were long gone. No surprise. I took a minute to splash the sweat off my face since we’d been loading the truck, and wiped myself dry using the front of my shirt.

It was on the way back from the restroom I noticed things were a little more organized than they’d seemed to be in my original assessment -- a trifle. There was, in fact, something like a triage area situated close to the actual Emergency Room, and a nurse was actively making her way through an acre of patients on stretchers and gurneys that had been gathered there. The least urgent cases were being shunted off into the corals of humans refuse I’d first encountered clustered around the doors where I came in.

Making my way towards the exit, I turned a corner and caught myself staring into some of those tired, vacant faces, not daring to admit to a vague feeling of hope. I asked myself if I should try to find someone in charge, and begin the potentially endless process of asking questions that might never have answers. In a way, it almost frightened me too much to think about. So, I decided to ask Shannon to do it, maybe, when I got back to him outside.

You had to wonder how long some of those poor people had been waiting there. Days, did not seem like too exaggerated an estimate. A lot of them were staring back at me. I was something different to look at, I suppose. A momentary novelty in an ocean of boredom. There was one guy, however, who was not facing out towards the crowded waiting room like the others. He was on his knees pressing his face into a corner where two walls met, like he was hoping he could disappear in there somehow.

Just then, the silent, old orderly who’d been passing out water came around. He ambled right over to the pathetic figure I’d seen attempt to hide himself in that tiny wedge of space. Using an unopened bottle of water, he'd nudged unobtrusively at the guy’s hunched shoulders, and then bent to retrieve another nearly empty one lying nearby on the floor. His small act of kindness, however, only resulted in a disturbed scramble of feet as the unhappy recipient tried to crawl even deeper into the wall joint. A pair of battered red sneakers scrapped over the carpet helplessly, since there was really nowhere to go. Funny red shoes, I thought, suddenly noticing the dirty, white stripes running along the sides. Badly scuffed, too, from what I could see this far away and without my glasses, and flat-soled like some kind of skate shoe…

The very instant those small details registered in my head, a cold, tightening coil of realization began twisting in the pit of my gut. It was a moment exactly like the old cliché that goes, "time stood still." The whole world around me shrank down to a fine point, like there was one diamond of clarity in all that chaos.

I was wracking my brain and breaking out in a sweat. Think, man, think! _What was he wearing the night he and Aaron took off together with Maggie?_ I tried not to get too worked up, what if I was wrong? But, my hands had already started shaking, and my feet had stumbled to a halt. Maybe just the fact that we were here in Sacramento was playing tricks on me? No. I was almost positive. I was almost sure I was right about the shoes.

Anxiously, I began picking my way through the maze of seated and sprawled bodies blocking the distance between me and... whoever I was going to find inhabiting those shoes. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. Now that I was close, I could see a bare patch of scalp extending back across the top of his bowed head, and stitches. And then oddly, as I watched my own hand reach forward, I saw it hesitate of its own accord. Long seconds passed while it hovered in the air in front of me and refused to do more.

What if it wasn’t him? What then?

I stared at my trembling fingers where they’d stubbornly paused, arrested in mid-motion, making their silent prayers for a man who had long ago forgotten how to pray. My throat tightened on what might have been my last breath of air. I felt like I was slipping down and down, somewhere deep underwater.

Gently, my hand slid over a thin shoulder that flinched away from my touch…

　

\---------

021/00

Beta

Jesus fucking Christ, Matt, I was thinking. Took you long enough.

We’d been standing around on the driveway circle outside the Emergency Department’s automatic glass doors for what seemed like an eternity. Engine running, waving off security -- I know, I know, we aren’t supposed to be here this long, but... Yes, sir, it’s a patient drop-off, not a parking space, I got that. Just another minute, okay? He’ll be right out, I swear. My smile was wearing thin.

And suddenly, there he was. _Finally_ , Matt. Jesus…

The door panel slid open before him and he stepped out onto the bright, day lit pavement, but at the last moment he turned and retreated back a step into the dark. _Now_ what? I saw him tugging gently, but insistently on the arm of someone hidden in the shadow of the doorway. Without thinking my brain sighed -- alright, I see. It seemed he’d found another lost soul, another sad little refugee he probably intended to add to the tribe’s numbers. Well, whatever. The more the merrier, just _hurry the fuck up!_ Slowly and unsteadily, Matt and his companion were making their way out into the light.

Then suddenly my heart started pounding before my mind even agreed to accept what my eyesight was telling me. Dark hair, hanging in ropes. I could barely see a face. Because the free hand, the one that wasn’t clutching at the front of Matt’s shirt, was covering up the eyes. But I knew.

When my feet began propelling me forward instinctively, I still wasn’t thinking clearly. Now I get it. Now I know why people run back into burning buildings.

Matt held up his hand, turning his palm outward to caution me, to warn me off. "You’ll scare him." Okay, I skidded to a halt, sucking in my breath. Okay, yeah. And you could see he was already, obviously very very scared.

So, I froze in my tracks and stood rooted right where I was, even though my fingers and arms were aching and itching to be around him and all over him.

My God. Tomo.

\-- stop --


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Three "Wreckage of the Past"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding. The past continues on its collision course with the future. Jared waits back at the Swallows for Matt and Shannon to return. Matt has finally found the "something to hold on to" that Jared sensed he was looking for. Shannon’s hanging on, too, trying to keep everything from falling apart.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed.

 

\--------- * --------- * ---------  
...are you listening?  
Can you hear what I am  
saying?’  
‘I am not here.  
I’m not listening.  
I’m in my head, and I’m  
spinning…’ "  
\--------- * --------- * ---------

　

  
021/00

Alpha

I’m holding audience like a freakin’ potentate, and trying my best to concentrate on what’s being said. Honestly.

Someone named Robert Edwards and his wife are sitting directly across from me in the Guardroom, one of two suites at the extreme northern end of the Swallows’ building complex that we use for exactly what it sounds like. For quite a while now, they’ve been going on at length about the untimely breech that is presently disrupting the otherwise flawless continuity of their son’s secondary school education. Perhaps I am unaware, they suggest, but so far this ‘interruption’ has reached an appalling total of three weeks, with no hint that his regimen of academic rigor will be resuming any time soon.

After all their years of careful preparation, self-denial and single-minded planning it’s starting to look as if Robert junior’s shot at an Ivy League is headed straight down the tubes. Ol’ Bert is leaning so far forward in his seat and staring at me so earnestly, I have a momentary fantasy where he falls to his knees and begins to pray. Mrs. Bert, on the other hand -- a dark, twitchy, angular woman -- looks at me like a big, black, sinewy bird about to strike.

A few hours ago, the guys left for Sacramento with the empty equipment truck and one escort vehicle, and already I’m counting the minutes until they return. I mean, at least in my head I am tracking every single second according to the best estimate I can make about when they should be returning. My eyes keep wandering towards the front window involuntarily, searching the road for signs of life, even though realistically I can’t expect them to get back anytime before late this afternoon. And I am trying to listen to Bert and his wife, I really am, but the whole thing is just so ludicrous.

I’ve already met little Bert junior. He’s one of the kids that’s being rooted out of the compound and sent into exile up on the farm. I was the one who had to go give him and his family the news about the new rule, and that’s how we got into this discussion in the first place. Old Bert wanted to know if his son and the rest of these boys were just being warehoused in order to keep them from causing inconvenience to the rest of us. Or, did we perhaps have some kind of plan in mind for their continuing growth and development? Actually, I thought that was a very good question, even if at the time I misunderstood the underlying concern.

For the most part, Little Bert himself took the news about his change of residence very calmly. He blinked at me studiously, his expression struggling to mask a mixture of alarm and eager anticipation, which I’m fairly certain must be the same reaction every long-term inmate feels when confronted with the prospect of getting sprung, no matter what kind of prison. Because, I’m also guessing to date Little Bert’s carefully crafted existence hasn’t left much room for unanticipated events. He’s packing right now like the rest of them, and later I’ll walk him over to the house personally and get him settled in with the others.

I must confess however, that all this time, while my physical body has been going through the motions and exercises of leadership, what I’ve really been engaged in is thinking things like -- if they got through the Highway Patrol checkpoint okay, they must be in Sacramento right now. And if the traffic patterns in the city haven’t changed too much, probably they are already at the aid distribution center. I wonder how long they’ll be kept waiting there?

I takes a concerted effort of all my mental and emotional discipline to keep dragging my thoughts back to the present.

"Do we have any idea what the school system around here was like before the Crisis?" I hear myself ask the Berts, trying to stick with the conversation. For that matter, where were -- or are -- the schools? Not in Gabriel Crossing. They must have been bussing their students to a nearby town. Well, that’s out of the question now, Bert senior observes, finally coming to grips with at least one aspect of our new reality.

Then, my mind starts to wander again. They took the ration tickets. I’m wondering if they’ll stop for gas on their way into the city, or on their way back. Earlier in the day would be better in case the supply is running short. I hope Shannon will think of that. Well, if he doesn’t probably Matt will, or Ray. They’ve all been very conscientious about keeping track of our fuel reserves ever since the beginning.

Back in the Guardhouse there’s a question floating in the air about textbooks, and libraries. And home schooling, but I’m afraid I was only half listening and this time I’ve really lost the thread.

"Well, what about teachers?" Mrs. Bert interjects. "Do we have any former teachers here? Probably we should talk to them."

Personally, I have severe reservations about the usefulness of those old public school methods and curriculums in our altered circumstances. Yeah, when it comes to public education, I do not necessarily regard catastrophic destruction as all bad. But, I tell them I think that’s a good idea, and to check around among the townies, too. I’ll worry about improvising and innovating later, when we know better what kind of resources we have to work with. Before long, with only a fragment of my attention focused on the problem, we’ve assembled a decent list of potentials to be investigated. The Berts go away satisfied and with their sense of purpose renewed.

And I must admit, I'm having a few thoughts of my own about the potential value a little personal and intellectual focus could have on the life of any boy living in that otherwise thoroughly unstructured environment over at the farm.

When I finally have the chance to slip off to my room alone, my humble plan is simply to find a moment of quiet and privacy. Once I get there, however, my first impulse is to strip the bed and wash the sheets, because Shannon did that chore for us last time. But then I actually see the unmade bed, and the tangle of blankets where we’d kicked them away from our feet in the night, the ghost of an impression where his head was lying on the pillow,… the bunched up heap of his underwear still sitting on his side of the mattress… and I decide not to; I don’t touch a thing. I leave it all exactly the way I found it.

A moment later Cody is here, settling himself into one of the chairs by our corner table. He lets himself in these days with only the most rudimentary of knocks on the door. This morning, when I told him I was sending him to Sacramento with the others, he begged off saying there were things at the farm he needed to attend to. I didn’t ask what, and I didn’t argue with him since maybe our entire future is staked on what we’ve got hidden up there. It would’ve been nice to have sent him along into the city, though. My gut feeling is nobody would have been better at finding those black markets we so sorely need to explore dealing with, except maybe my brother. And Cody’s savvy for negotiating with them would have been a definite bonus. The thought that I ended up sending Shannon to do the job alone has been tearing at me ever since.

Cody drops two small items on the table top in front of me. A box of Dramamine and a little round plastic dispenser of birth control pills.

"I’ve been over to check on Angeletta. Maybe I should have talked to you first," he says shifting uneasily. Like Bert senior earlier, he leans forward towards me, his elbows resting heavily on the table surface.

Why does everything and everyone seem to be coming _at_ me today. For a moment the name Angeletta doesn’t register, then I realize he’s talking about our young "Juliet." And I’m eyeing the birth control pills.

"Isn’t this a little like closing the barn door after the horse is out?" I smirk.

"No," he says, and he’s not smiling.

I flick back the top and notice four of the tiny white pills are missing.

"She’s already on birth control?" Cody still has the power to surprise and amaze me. And maybe I should add ‘disturb’ to that list, too. So, he was supplying her already? He knew all along? When did they work out this deal? And now I’m reconsidering Shannon’s indiscriminate glee over the Puppies’ routine of signs and signals for room usage, because obviously if he knew all about this… Jesus fucking fuck. I’m wondering how big a sex network we’re really talking about, right under my nose. Maybe the tribe has a point, why the hell didn’t I know anything about it?

But, again Cody says, "No."

Well, then I don’t get it.

My mystification must be obvious, and maybe my agitation, too, because he elaborates without any further prompting from me. He says, "It’s a morning after treatment."

"…oh-h…" I’m still not clear on the details, but at least I understand what he’s telling me. All he’s supplying is a little emergency intervention. My blood pressure settles down a bit. "Do her parents know? I mean, what you’re giving her?"

"Um, yeah. But I had to talk fast. I said I figured since we’d all decided just this morning that a fourteen-year-old boy was old enough to be living like a man, well then, a fourteen-year-old girl must have some equivalent rights and responsibilities, too."

"She’s fourteen?"

"Yeah."

That’s... that’s young. I mean, I sort of figured she was somewhere around that age, and it’s not like I don’t remember being fourteen, and know what can happen. Still… this little refresher chat with Cody is certainly putting a fine point on everything.

"Then I asked her what she wanted to do, and she said she wanted the pills, so I gave them to her. She’ll need a second dose in twelve hours, which gives her parents a chance to think the whole thing over again, I’m afraid." He hesitates for a minute before adding, "I think I kinda caught them by surprise the first time. I might need you to back me up on this."

I burst out laughing. Not that it’s very funny but, "Fuck, Cody, that was one hell of a political statement you made there," I say.

Suddenly, my intuition is tingling and I’m feeling half afraid, wondering if we aren’t about to end up watching the whole sexual revolution of the last half century go into reverse. "What about Nate?" I ask him. "Did you get a chance to talk to Nate about any of this?"

And, for that matter, what about all those other related subjects we haven’t even begun to address yet? How many kinds of pills have you got there, Cody? Enough to take care of all that, too? And what do we do when the pills and the condoms run out?

Cody fixes me with his worldly eye, and well-tempered grin. "No," he answers. "I figured that was your job."

Great. So, just where the fuck is that older brother of mine when I need him? To, you know, act like a big brother?  
  
  
\---------

021/00

Gamma

After patiently persuading Tomo it was okay to turn just his shoulders towards me, and then finally his head so I could see him, something inside me must have snapped. Maybe it was the sight of those bruises covering the side of his face.

I started dragging him over to the nurse I’d seen working in the triage area, and the next thing I knew, I was raving at her like a madman. I was pretty aggressive, which isn’t like me under normal circumstances, but I don’t think many of us have experienced the luxury of ‘normal’ for a long time now. So, I’ve forgiven myself for my momentary lapse of sanity and bad manners. Understandably, Tomo was resisting me the whole time, trying to sink back down to the floor again, but I had a good grip on his wrist and just kept yanking him along by the arm.

Maybe cases of borderline hysteria like mine had become part of that poor woman’s daily routine, I don’t know, but she didn’t seem too disturbed by my outburst, and actually tried to be helpful. She took us back to the registration area, offered me a chair, and checked Tomo’s wristband.

"They signed him in as a John Doe," she said.

"Do you know how long he’s been here?" I heard my voice crack, but truthfully by then I was actually beginning to feel a trifle calmer.

"Since yesterday." Her eyes ran over the wound on the top of his head. "Probably to have his sutures removed, I would guess."

"But what happened to him? He’s… there’s something not right. He doesn’t know me." I was babbling. I began to tell her about how long ago he’d disappeared. About Maggie and Aaron. About the two of us being in a band together. Everything came spilling out of me in a jumble.

"What’s his name?" she asked, turning to the desk.

"Tomo. Tomislav Milicevic." I spelled it for her. She tapped on the keyboard of a tired-looking old monster of a computer, entering Tomo’s name into what must be one of the last functioning databases on the planet.

"Nothing." She shook her head. "But he may not have received his initial treatment here." Then she checked for Maggie, and finally for Aaron. "I’m sorry. We don’t have anything," was all she said.

I felt her watching me for my reaction, as if I was the real patient and not Tomo. So, she must have seen me clutch his hand a little tighter.

"I can take those stitches out for him," she offered gently. "You don’t have to wait to see the doctor for that."

"God, yes, please," I responded. "I think he’s been here long enough."

You couldn’t explain to Tomo what was going to happen, or tell him he had to hold still, so she sat him on the floor between my knees and I held on to his shoulders while she snipped and tweezed.

"Why would someone care enough to bring him here and then abandon him?" I fretted, thoughts about Aaron and Maggie churning in my mind.

"Probably just someone being a good Samaritan who couldn’t afford to get involved," she responded. "It happens a lot."

"Do you think it might have been the same person who did this to him?" My fingers traced the discoloration on the side of his face. I was obsessing. I already knew she didn’t have any answers for me.

"It’s hard to say," she replied softly. "He’s lucky you found him, though."

I nodded. A few moments later she was finished, and I had him on his feet beside me, slowly shuffling towards the exit doors. I don’t even know if I remembered to thank her.

It’s strange, I was thinking, what we’ve come to regard as ‘good luck’ these days.  
  
  
\---------

022/00

Beta

We’ve been back at the Swallows now for what’s probably been the worst best twenty-four hours of my life, and I still don‘t know what I’m feeling exactly. It’s complicated. We found Tomo at the hospital in Sacramento, which is great. Better than great; it’s fantastic, practically a miracle. But, I can see it’s still gonna be a while before Tomo finds us, if you get what I mean.

Right after I saw him come creeping towards me, clutching at Matt’s shirt and trying to cover his face with his other hand, my inclination was to grab him up in my arms and head directly for home. Straight to Jared, and safety. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

But of course we couldn’t do that. There were over a hundred people waiting for us at the compound, all counting on our determined sortie to bring back the goods -- in other words, enough provisions to see us through until the next food distribution. The forms I’d gotten at the aid center granting us entry to the farmers’ market were still sitting on the front seat of the car. They were good for today and only today. So there really wasn’t much choice. It would be a little longer yet before Tomo finally got home. He was going to have to come along with us for the rest of the adventure, ready or not.

He did not look ready. Not one bit from what I could see.

His bone thin fingers were all scrapped and raw, and his nails were broken and dirty. There was a huge, angry red scar running across his scalp. Matt tried to warn me not to touch him, but finally I couldn’t help myself. I eased up next to him as carefully as I could and sneaked a hug around his stiff, quaking shoulders. I felt him grow still under my touch, like he was holding his breath. Beneath the shield of his hand I spied the fading yellow-gray shadow of a bruise that circled around his eye. He wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t looking at anything as far as I could tell, except maybe into someplace so deep inside himself he didn’t need to see any of us.

"What happened to him?" I whispered.

"They couldn’t tell me much," Matt answered, pulling him out of my arms and gently urging him into the back seat of the car.

Will had stepped out of the driver’s side door and was staring at Tomo, open-mouthed and at a complete loss. Across the road, where they’d been loitering in the parking lot opposite us, I could see Ray and Nate standing by our truck’s front bumper, their attention riveted on the scene unfolding in front of the hospital emergency room doors. Nate was pacing and practically boiling over with obvious emotion, but neither one of them was willing to leave our payload unattended for a reunion. Wise choice. It would have to wait.

We couldn’t waste anymore time here anyway, I was thinking. We needed to be moving again. "Alright," I said to Will, "let’s get going." A simple enough command that snapped him back to the reality of our original purpose. The aid distribution. "You okay to drive?" I asked.

"Yeah," he gasped, and slipped behind the wheel.

What do I remember about the ride to the farmers’ market? Not much, I admit. Only the truck following us, and me trying to read the fucking map while watching Tomo curl into a ball and press himself up against the rear passenger door behind me. I reached over the seat to make sure it was locked and that he couldn’t open it. And I also remember the sound of Matt’s voice making soft, soothing conversation while he rubbed Tomo’s back.

Suddenly, "Right or left?" Will asked, rather urgently. I looked back at the map, having no idea where we were.

"Left!" Christ, I told myself, will you fucking concentrate? But it was okay. I didn’t get us lost. In another minute, I could see a line of other vehicles queuing up at our destination.

The farmers’ market was down in the old warehouse district by the river. There were National Guard troops all over the place trying to maintain a semblance of order. I flashed our paperwork at them, and they waved to Ray and Nate in the truck, pointing them towards the loading docks around the back. We had to park our car in a specially reserved area directly across from the market entrance, which I suppose made things easier to secure. When we pulled up at the lot’s little guard shack to get a parking permit hang tag for the rear-view mirror, they wanted to see I.D. And of course Tomo didn’t have any. So, for a second I panicked, thinking someone might try to take him away from us again, but after giving him the once over the guy in charge didn’t seem too concerned. I was handed a clipboard and shown where to sign, and we were done.

Nate came searching for us by himself. Ray had elected to stick with the truck, which in spite of all the Guard around seemed like a prudent course of action. At first, Matt wanted to stay in the car with Tomo, which meant the Puppies and I would be trying to sort our way through all the unfamiliar bureaucracy ourselves. With an inward groan I steeled myself for the task deal with everything alone, for all means and purposes. And for suffering through the boys' growing pains. See, the original plan had been for Nate and Will to mostly watch and learn while Matt and I worked through the inevitable paper quagmire for the first time and, uh, performed any obligatory wheel-greasing that might prove necessary. Then, Matt decided he and Tomo should come along after all -- an even more dubious plan in my opinion -- because he wanted to see if he could find something to eat.

Remind me sometime to write about Matt’s awesome powers of ingestion -- for now, I’ll simply say there is no known set of circumstance under which their drives and desires will be denied. None that I’ve discovered, at any rate.

Once we got inside, it was mostly a matter of inching our way through a series of interminable lines. There were different ones to change your cash and/or trade goods into market points; another to turn over your points slip and ration coupons for a pick ticket and a receipt that listed the goods you were entitled to. Then on to the tables by the docks. When it was finally your turn, you gave them your ticket, and your truck got to pull up for loading -- and hopefully your order wasn’t too hard to locate. The trick was double-checking the count at every stage so you weren’t getting cheated, either by an error of calculation, or one of those other kinds of more intentional mistakes.

I should also mention that inside the market the walls were lined with every type of opportunist who will cheerfully exchange your points for all sorts of goods and services the government doesn’t trade in. The Guard would come along and try to chase them off, but the instant those military uniforms were out of sight, every pimp and pusher in the neighborhood would come crawling back out of the woodwork again. Fortunately, our Pups had spent just enough time with us working certain segments of the tour circuit to size that situation up for what it was instantly. In a scary way, I was kinda proud of them.

I guess the crowds and the yelling in the warehouse were too intimidating for Tomo, because we found him and Matt sitting on the front steps outside working hard at consuming a stack of flat breads and some orange slices they’d got off a street vendor. Tomo’s face looked sort of wet and sticky, so the orange must have been a hit. Matt would tap on his lips with whatever morsel he wanted to put in his mouth next, and eventually Tomo would open up for him.

If you drive around Sacramento for any length of time, one of the first things you’ll notice is there are street vendors all over the place. Everyone’s an entrepreneur these days. That is, everyone who wants to survive. Each and every package of distribution flour is clearly stamped, "For the public relief. Not intended for resale. Not intended for use in manufactured goods to be resold." But five minutes after people get their hands on the stuff, that’s exactly what they do. So, now we had bread and fruit for the trip home.

We followed the truck coming out of the city, and when at last we got back to Gabriel Crossing, Ray swung into the motel driveway instead of pulling up onto the diner’s parking lot, which would have been the more logical thing to do since we still had to unload. But I guess he made his decision on a strictly emotional basis, like the rest of us, not really thinking about much more than the need to get the most precious part of our cargo home safe.

Jared must have been waiting by the window and watching for our return, because immediately he came jogging out to meet us. Before I could say anything, or offer him a word of warning to soften the blow, Nate burst out of the truck’s passenger side door hollering, "We found Tomo!" in a spasm of pent up, juvenile enthusiasm. Patiently, Matt began the task of easing Tomo out of the back seat and into the waning sunlight.

"It’s alright," he reassured him. "It’s okay." Man, by then it seemed like I’d heard Matt say that over a hundred times, all the way home.

Jared froze. I don’t know how much he took in at first glance, but I guess it was enough. You could see Tomo’s tremulous hand covering up his eyes, and the ragged scar trailing across his head. I stood there helplessly watching as the waves of agony broke over my brother’s face.

He didn’t cry though. Not until much later that night. In bed, in the dark, with my arms wound tightly around him. Jared doesn’t cry very often these days, so the sheer intensity of it kinda frightened me. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I could feel my heart breaking from the way he went on and on, like a storm surge; merciless and unending.

The unrelieved sound of Jared’s grief must have finally gotten to Jack, too, who slipped out of the bed next to ours and dressed silently without turning on the lamp. Then he left us alone together drifting in the depths of Jared’s sorrow and our familiar, haunted unity.

After that, like so many other times in our marred and checkered past, it was just the two of us, with what seemed like the weight and heaviness of this whole new world suspended somewhere in between us. All the rest of that night we lay there locked in the hunger and thirst of a shared despair and loneliness. To me, it felt like drowning while the darkness in Jared’s soul kept dragging us deeper and deeper. I was afraid, I admit it, but I would not let go. I will never let go. I clung to him just as tightly as he was clinging to me, struggling my way upward trying to break through the surface.

It’s frightening, but the only way I know how to bring him back from his brushes with death and the devil is to go down the whole distance with him. Time, and time again, whenever he needs. And he’s done the same for me.

It’s just the way things are with us. This is how we survive.

\-- stop --


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Three "Wreckage of the Past"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding. There are some things that are just too hard to talk about, but fortunately, there’s very little time for anything except getting on with life.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed.

\--------- * --------- * ---------  
"I won’t suffer, be broken,  
get tired,  
or wasted.  
Surrender to nothing…"  
\--------- * --------- * ---------

　

022/00

Beta

That was yesterday.

Today we got up understandably late, and while Jared was in the shower we had another blip with the water supply. Abruptly and without warning, the pressure dwindled down and down until it was nonexistent. I heard the echo of Jared’s "goddamn it" from where I stood in the bedroom. Of course, he’d just lathered his hair.

So, I took one of those motel room glasses into the bathroom and lifted the lid off the toilet tank. Now, before you think, "Ew-w-w!" remember, this is where the _clean_ water comes in from outside, not the bowl. Although I don’t know if I’d want to drink it, necessarily. Then, I poured cup after cup over his head while he gasped and swore at me, because the water temperature was frigid. But at least I got him all rinsed off and soap free.

The usual assortment of petitioners had already started to form a line by our door. Jared was still pulling on his jeans when the first of the day’s complainers knocked officiously and announced that in addition to the dry taps, there was a washing machine on the fritz. Moreover, was Jared aware of the severe laundry detergent shortage? The last of what the guys had scavenged only a few days ago was practically gone. I swear, when this next generation economy of ours finally takes shape, soap is gonna be the new gold standard.

And bleach, their bitching continued. All the remaining bleach had been confiscated by Jack for disinfecting over at the diner, which was patently unfair.

"I actually have a good suggestion for you," Jared responded brightly while tucking and zipping himself into place. I couldn’t believe he’d let them come in like he did while he was still half naked. Later, I would realize it was just another expression of his perverse mood. At first he’d seemed calm enough, or at least that’s what I had thought, but then I recognized something noticeably uneven about the dark sparkle in his eye. So, I kept listening to him nervously.

"It comes from ancient Rome. They used to use human piss to clean the clothes. No, seriously. They would set out pots along the street in front of the laundries, and passers-by would donate." He grinned wickedly, wa-a-ay too happy with himself, telling his little story. "It worked, too," he assured them. His audience was speechless, which only prompted him to treat everyone to an even wider smile. "Think of it as an extreme form of recycling."

Okay, for the first time in over three weeks, I’m feeling like Jared isn’t up to dealing with people right now. It’s been known to happen sometimes. In our former life, it tended to occur most notably with journalists.

I was about to bar the door for the rest of the morning when Cody and Jenna came in carrying breakfast: eggs, fresh sliced oranges, and some kind of muffins on a tray with two steaming mugs of coffee. Kinda reminded me of room service in the old days.

Delicately, Jenna set the table for us and backed away with the empty tray. She’d always been a shy girl, but I couldn’t help noticing the way she was acting around Jared, like she didn’t dare raise her eyes to look at him. Maybe ’cause he was barefoot and bare-chested? He still hadn’t quite finished dressing yet.

"I talked to Matt about conditions at the hospital in Sacramento," Cody began. It definitely looked like we were going to be having another working breakfast. You’d think -- that is, I’d sort of hoped -- that after last night Jared and I might get the morning to ourselves to pull our lives back together a bit. But there’s never enough time.

Almost invisibly, Jenna had slipped towards the door. "Hey, thanks Jenna," I called after her. When she lifted her startled gaze, I smiled. She bobbed her head at me, more like a bow than a simple acknowledgement, and ducked out silently. Strange.

"And?" Jared’s edgy voice prodded. He grabbed a chair and a plate, and dove into the eggs.

"Basically, he said he was glad to get Tomo back here where he could get some decent medical attention."

I choked on an unhealthy mix of laughter and coffee. Jared cocked an eyebrow at me. Wait, no. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. "No offense, Cody," I sputtered. That was not a vote of 'no confidence'. "I'm not laughing at you. But, really, if that isn’t the fucking truth…"

"None taken." He looked serious, and a little grim. We all settled around the table together and he began again. "You know, that first night when we started hoarding pharmaceuticals, I was mostly thinking about what they’d be worth to us in trade."

"Uh-huh." Jared nodded, mumbling around his breakfast muffin.

"Anything I could traffic, from narcotics, to hormones, to Ritalin," he paused and shrugged. "Even cold medication."

"And now you’re thinking perhaps we should start our own meth lab?" Jared inquired with casual curiosity, his mood still wavering somewhere between ironic amusement and surliness. Right up to that moment, I don’t think I’d ever really completely understood what an uneasy peace Jared had made with himself over that busload of drugs we’d been hiding. Or what the simple fact of its existence was costing him and me personally.

"No. But these days you can always unload Tylenol cold formula on some guys who’ll use it to cut heroin," Cody started to explain, then suddenly stopped.

Into child-size doses, I added silently. That’s the part Cody did not explain.

In fact, Cody was dead quiet for quite a while after that, like he'd decided there were details in our former plan of action that none of the others ever needed to know about. And so, he did not go into the questionable morality of what we’d been preparing to do in the short term for the sake of our own self-interest. With, I should add, no particular focus on what the end result might be. As if trading in scarce OTCs and off-script medications wasn’t _really dealing_. As if. And whatever problems occurred after the point of sale? Well, we had conveniently relegated all of that to our willful ignorance. Any consequences would end up being the result of somebody else’s choices. We had planned on trading whatever meds we could manage to get our hands on for the sake of simply getting on with our own getting on, and whatever happened post-sale was none of our fucking business.

"I see."

In spite of the heaviness in his soft-spoken words, my brain was going, no, Jared, I don’t think you do. Not completely. And I pray you never will.

"Sacramento is crawling with all kinds of sleaze," I told him, suddenly injecting myself into the conversation. "You wanted us to find the black markets? Well, it was not that hard to do. But, I don’t think they’re exactly what you are imagining. They are absolutely the _black_ markets, Jared. There are no shades of gray. And I _really_ don’t think you want to throw in with that lot."

Believe me, please, when I say some things about this world will never change.

"So, yeah," I continued, a bit less urgently. "Since they’ll trade in practically anything, and I mean, all kinds of _whatever_ , you might be able to get certain things through them you couldn’t get otherwise, but…"

"It was different when I was only thinking about our own situation, in terms of your band and crew and…" Cody sat there for a second rotating his hand in the air, then his mouth began to sag into a sad, lop-sided smile. "…when I thought it was just us. You know, here we were, a bus full of all-American a-holes trying to figure out how we were going to get from point ‘A’ to… wherever the hell we thought we were going next," he added with a shrug, sparing a glance at me.

"Yeah, ah, where did we think we were going, again?" I was surprised to hear my voice bark out in a rough laugh, and I shook my head. What the fuck were we thinking those first few days? Desperate times, desperate measures? I can see now where it almost took us, where we almost ended up.

For some perverse reason, Cody and I started snickering. Nervous tension maybe, and our combined sleeplessness. Mostly laughing at each other, gallows humor. Not because there was actually anything funny enough to laugh about. My brother’s eyes shifted back and forth between the two of us.

"Now, we’ve got over a hundred people here," I said. "Women and families… and kids."

"One hundred and twenty-three, last count," Jared informed me with the precision of a man who considers each and everyone of them before he can fall asleep at night.

And after almost a whole month of living with them, struggling right along beside them day after day trying to insure our mutual survival, finally, even to me this entire pathetic scenario was starting to look like exactly what it had been all along: a very bad flashback. Which must have been exactly what Jared thought he was seeing right from the first. An unexpected and unwelcome trip down memory lane at the worst possible moment of our lives. Lying, hiding, secrets, and evasions. Jesus. No wonder my brother had been acting all crazy with paranoia and suspicion around me. All the things I’d been doing probably had him scared half to death.

"If you ask me," Cody spoke carefully, "it would be a mistake to even let on we’ve got the kind of stash here that we do. Trying to trade any sizable amount of it would be too much like advertising. It could end up being more trouble than it’s worth."

Implication. You’d be inviting more raids, more guns, and more Tomos.

"So, what you’re saying," Jared’s finger was tapping almost soundlessly on the edge of his mug, "is that it’s all essentially worthless? In fact, its very existence is a potential liability? That it might attract, ah, unwanted attention?"

"I’m saying the old plan, if you could call it a _plan_ , was a short term solution and not a very enlightened one at that. But now, priorities have changed," Cody sighed, folding his arms across his chest.

"And," Jared continued, eyeing Cody over cannily, "at some point so did your collecting habits, as I recall. You told me that, I remember."

"Yes," Cody affirmed.

What I thought I heard Jared saying between the lines made my heart bleed a little. All this time, I realized, he must have been holding on to that one, single off-handed remark of Cody’s like it was his life preserver.

"Look," I said. "There are lots of other ways to trade for what we need. We saw all kinds of ordinary people selling and bartering just about anything you can think of on the streets in Sacramento. Clothing, bread, oranges…"

"Coffee?" my brother suggested, with a deceptively charming smile. Okay, _that_ remark I did not deserve. But, it did serve me notice how wound up my brother still was about everything.

Before we could head down that road, though, Cody interrupted us. "Once those first couple of days after the Crisis had passed, we started scavenging for different kinds of medical supplies. Things that would help support the general health of the community here."

"And?" my brother prompted. I thought he could see where this was going.

"And, uh," Cody squirmed uneasily and looked at Jared a little sheepishly. "On reflection, I think maybe now would be a good time to open up my own clinic."

Because all along, he confessed, one of the things he’d been doing without telling us was treating some of the local people for minor health problems when they hadn’t been able to find any other medical help. A lot of the time they would try to offer him something of value in exchange. Whatever they could manage.

"Alright," said Jared, satisfied with this announcement. "I think we should go start unloading the bus and getting organized."

Just then the faucets and toilet gurgled back to life. Once again, like last time, the water had an unusual color and suspicious odor.

"Would you get some of that bottled water distributed to the families with children?" Jared asked me when I came back from shutting off the shower. "And then go find Eric and tell him to get working on bringing well water down from the farm."  
  
  
\---------

023/00

Gamma

Probably the first thing I should write about is that my living situation has changed recently, thanks to Sarah.

When we first got home, Tomo was so disoriented and so easily upset, she went around and persuaded some of the people here who have already shifted their room assignments I don’t know how many times, to shift them again. Bless her. That freed up a room for the other three guys I’d been bunking with, so Tomo and I could have the room he was used to all by ourselves. I say "used to," but that’s not really an accurate statement. He treats practically everything he encounters as if it was some sort of cosmic unknown, and a potential threat. Still, living without Jack, or Shannon, or particularly Jared underfoot there are a lot fewer interruptions and less distractions. And everyday I keep hoping for a sign from Tomo that he finds something, some little part of this, familiar.

Because he still hasn’t said a single word to anyone, and there are a lot of other problems, too. At the moment I’m feeling very grateful to Sarah for giving us this space alone together to try to work some of that out.

Not too long ago, I’ll admit, I was feeling a little disturbed about how Jared and Eric always seemed to be undervaluing Sarah’s contributions to what keeps the system around here working. And Shannon, well, I don’t think he even _sees_ Sarah, no matter if he’s looking straight at her, or what. But, I guess that comes from years of practice not really seeing any of Jared’s women. So in his case, it’s kind of forgivable.

But, here’s an example of what I mean. Yesterday, Sarah rounded up all the able-bodied women and children, and coerced some of the guys into driving them to a local farm in the area. When they got there, they found a couple square miles of ripe strawberries threatening to rot in the fields under the heat of the southern California sun. Sarah had heard about the situation from one of her contacts on Gabriel Crossing’s informal bartering network. In no time flat, she’d settled on a one-for-one deal with the farm owner. Every two quarts of berries the tribe picked, we got to keep one for ourselves.

It should come as no surprise, I guess, that the supply of farm labor is not even half of what it used to be. Prudently, the majority of foreign migrant workers all high-tailed it back across the border weeks ago when the panic first began. That left the rest of us to figure out how to shift for ourselves. It’s the primary reason why the farmers’ markets are so bare, and you need an appointment and protectorate coupons just to shop there. Not because there’s no food to be had in this state, but because, like Jared says, we’re clueless.

So, all around the compound these days, you’ll be treated to sights like stock brokers’ wives sporting their formerly nail-perfect fingers stained strawberry red, and with their hair tied up in our old bandanas.

I don’t mean anything negative by that. Cassie -- her husband used to work for Altemus Investments -- is a great girl, too, really. When Mikayla told everyone who was going picking to wear something to cover their hair and keep the sweat out of their eyes, somebody suggested our old cotton bandanas would work. Jared, pack rat that he is, still had a whole drawer full of them. Just in case we all needed to go ninja, or something I guess. Cassie wasn’t a bit shy about asking to have one of mine. Late last evening when they came dragging back sore, sunburnt, sticky and spattered with red, she thanked me and told me it really helped. And, she was still smiling when she said it.

You’ve heard the expression, "grace under pressure." Well, you’ll see it in a lot of ordinary people these days. I always thought that was one of Jared’s many gifts, even if he is a bit frayed around the edges at the moment.  
  
The tribe went berry picking again this morning with a plan to harvest as much as we possibly could, and hopefully a lot more than we would ever use by ourselves. That way, Sarah would have something to trade with in town. This is exactly the kind of unofficial commerce that has kept us so well supplied in local eggs, and we need to be doing more of it.

For some reason, I thought it might be nice for Tomo to get outside a little too, so when he woke up, on a whim, I got the both of us dressed and ready to go and off we went with the others. But he spent most of the trip with his face smothered against the back of my shoulder.

Here’s an interest discovery I made. In our new world order, it seems the men are exempt from working in the fields. We drive the trucks and load them, and haul around the coolers of drinking water. Then, while the women and kids are doing the back-breaking work of gathering, we stand near by keeping alert and watching over them. You know, just in case. I wondered briefly if bringing Tomo along had put a kind of damper on what might have been an otherwise carefree day; a not-so-subtle reminder of what can happen. Because there were other harvesters there as well, and we didn’t know them.

So, warily, we stood and watched that other tribe of strangers the whole time, and you could see them keeping just as close an eye on us.

On our way home, we stopped at the dairy for milk and several quarts of heavy cream, and with that, plus our distribution oil and flour, m’lady produced a very passable strawberry shortcake with all the trimmings. Trays and trays of it, a regular feast. So we had ourselves a sort of celebration. Our own little self-styled strawberry festival.

The tribe spread itself out all around the diner’s tiny yard and parking lot while the kids dragged out their toys, soccer balls, softballs, and mitts. Some games got going with the adults, too. I heard the sort of laughter I haven’t heard in a long time. In a way, it kind of reminded me of picnics and family reunions like people used to have in that other life, a sad thought I ended up trying to push to the back of my mind.

One of the things with Tomo is that he won’t eat unless I feed him myself, and even then it’s a struggle just to keep him focused on the task. He’s so damn thin. Usually, I wash my hands really well and use my fingers, because he’s pretty resistant to having a spoon or a fork near his mouth. It’s hard enough for me to keep him going after the first few bites, even without inducing his utensil phobia.

Fortunately, he’s got a little bit of a sweet tooth, like Jared, so the shortcake went over pretty well.

For a change, the food and the scene around him had his complete attention. I kept scooping up portion after portion of sticky fruit and cake, and pushing it into his eager mouth. He sat right next to me, lost in as deep a state of concentration as I’ve seen him in so far. I marveled that for once he was actually watching the others eat and play. The whole while, he maintained his typical, intense quiet, it’s almost like he’s trying to be invisible all the time, and…um, he kept sucking very earnestly on my fingers.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that he doesn’t really understand the implications of his own actions anymore in the same way the rest of us might.

I’ll write a few more things about what the last couple of days have been like later. Right now, Tomo is napping, and I want to go lay down on the bed beside him. That way, when he first wakes up he won’t think he’s all alone.

\-- stop --


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Three "Wreckage of the Past"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* End of an Odyssey?  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed.

\--------- * --------- * ---------  
"Where does your garden grow?  
Tell me the secrets that you know  
another time, another place…

Cross the line,  
Redefine…"  
\--------- * --------- * ---------

　

022/00

Alpha

For the longest time now I’ve been wondering how the rest of Braeburn County governs itself ever since that fateful night when America went meltdown, and this morning, I finally got a partial answer. It doesn’t.

An hour after the water pressure died, and suddenly sprang to life again we got an official visit from a very aggravated looking officer with the Army Corps of Engineers.

Fortunately, he wasn’t aggravated with us, specifically. He had come to notify us that we were under a boil water advisory. Thanks, but we figured that much out for ourselves.

It was some rule he was forced to follow because we were technically part of the Protectorate of Sacramento, and although we utilized Braeburn County’s water supply, we were not under its jurisdiction. Therefore, he was compelled by law to directly inform the community’s primary authority -- that would be me -- of any potential risk. That’s what prompted the personal visit. I tried to be pleasant. Since we would be boiling water anyway, I offered, would he care for some tea?

From him, I learned that except for a few enclaves of order like the Swallows, virtually all the rest of the civil administration around here had crumbled into dust that first night of the Crisis. I guess Tom Watson and his wife weren’t the only ones who’d made a desperate sprint for the state border. Town councilmen and county commissioners everywhere had vanished into thin air, which had effectively abandoned the responsibility for governance to the military. And so, ever since then, Braeburn County’s affairs have been overseen by Cap’n Frank and his weekend warriors.

There’s food for thought.

Now, about the drinking water. Sarah was able to tell me the principal intake for the Gabriel Crossing water supply was about twenty-five miles north of us, somewhere along the Sacramento River not too far from a strip of land that had formerly been jointly reclaimed by The Nature Conservancy and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Most of the little towns and villages down this way were served by the same supply line. A few years ago, there had been a big push in the state to restore the river’s natural ecosystem because something like sixty or seventy percent of all the fresh water used by California's southern cities, and for farm irrigation, came out of the Sacramento.

All that water. All that land, and all those people.

Apparently, the Corps had shut down the pump houses themselves, completely cutting off the flow of water, then restored it after performing some "routine inspections."

"Makes you wonder what they were ‘inspecting’ for," I said to Cody later. We were standing in the barn together next to the great white bus, where I’d brought him and Ray to ask for a minor miracle.

By way of a response, Cody offered me a noncommittal shrug. "Typhoid, cholera… second wave terrorist activity…" his voice mumbled. "Who knows?"

Who indeed. "They teach you about all that stuff in EMT school?" I inquired with forced levity.

"Oh yeah," he turned his twisted grin towards me. "Disaster response, working with toxic chemical releases, biohazards. They taught us everything. Which, as it turns out, wasn’t nearly enough."

I nodded, feigning a thoughtful calm, and we exchanged smiles.

"Think you can get this thing running?" I rapped the back of my knuckles against the metallic side of the bus.

Ray, who had been silently eavesdropping on our conversation, looked up -- to see if I was joking, I think.

"Planning on taking ’er out for a little spin?" Cody was as unflappable as ever.

"Only as far as the compound. But we gotta get it unloaded first."

Before either of them could invoke the use of the word "impossible" I went looking for Eric and some of the boys.

The sun had pushed itself above the tree line. It must have been getting close to noon. Eric had just about finished loading the equipment truck with several dozen containers of fresh water when I pulled him aside and asked for a word. "I need your opinion."

We climbed onto the bus together and I tried to give him a moment to adjust to the sight that greeted him there. "Just ignore all of this," I said blithely, gesturing at the Nembutal and Oxycontin with a sweep of my hand. "We’re moving it anyway. What I want to know is, how much of this interior do you think can be remodeled?"

"Huh?"

Not surprisingly, he was having a little trouble focusing on the question. "Like the bunks," I pressed him, squeezing around piles of boxes while he fumbled to follow after me. "I really have no use for all these bunks, they take up so much space. But you guys don’t even have enough beds for everybody living here at the house now, so…"

"Oh, well yeah." His hand drew back the closest set of privacy curtains and he peered inside. Oddly enough, I realized I couldn’t even remember whose bunk that one had been. But slowly, I was gaining more of Eric’s attention. "Even just the mattresses would be something…" his voice trailed off thoughtfully. It was so crowded over at the house, we had kids sleeping in the basement, dormitory style, not to mention the others who were camped out on the living room floor.

"But can you get the actual bunks themselves out of here? I mean, all I really need is just a bedroom, a good-sized office, some decent meeting space." I pointed in the general direction of where I pictured each of these areas might be located. "Maybe I’ll keep the kitchen," I added, considering the possibility.

He squinted at me inquisitively, and blinked. "You thinking about living out here with the rest of us ‘bachelors’?" The way he said it, the word was like a jab in my ribs.

"Um, no," I replied carefully, trying not to meet his eyes.

Outside, we could hear Ray and Cody wrestling with the door panel over the engine compartment. There was a sharp clatter of tools on the barn’s cement floor. "I want to move the bus down to the compound, and be able to use this space in the barn for other things."

"Okay." Eric hadn’t moved and wasn’t saying anything. He was just standing there, waiting, in case there was more of an explanation coming. Because whatever the hell I was planning to do with the barn, we were both aware I had not fully addressed his question about where and how I was planning to live. Or, why. Obviously, I already had a room of my own down at the Swallows. Could have had any damn room there that I wanted. To Eric, my attempt at a simplified answer must have sounded more like an evasion connected to some other, larger issue. Which, so far, had only managed to inspired more of his questions. As to _why_ I suddenly felt the need to make a home for myself on our old bus, I mumbled, "It’s pretty crowded down there, too." True, but equivocal enough I could literally feel the spike in his curiosity.

I sensed him analyzing the data, and weighing up the details that, a) I didn’t want to stay out here on the farm, and b) I wasn’t really interested in living within the Swallows’ motel complex anymore either. A swift, ephemeral look of consternation crossed over his face like he was struggling with the perceptive, but incomplete, conclusion that I’d decided on a strategic and somehow meaningful withdrawal to an older, more secure encampment.

"Ah-h," he suddenly cleared his throat and redirected his attention. Like he was shaking the dirt out of a problematic thought. "These are all probably some kind of modular units," he told me. "Pre-fab." He patted the faux wood paneling on the side of one of the bunks. "I think we could get them out with the right tools."

Nothing helps soothe a troubled mind better than a complex occupation for the hands, I’ve always found. "But, Jared," he continued. "Custom designing bus interiors is a little out of my field. And we won’t have anything like the right kind of materials for the job."

"I know. But I need to do this." This time, I did stop and look right at him.

"Then, it’ll get done."

Presciently, perhaps, the bus engine chose that exact moment to choke and sputter to life briefly, and then die again. I made my way back up towards the front to find Cody in his old seat. For an instant, the sight of him sitting there provoked the comforting illusion that nothing had ever really changed; that the last three weeks had been nothing more than an extremely bad dream enhanced by my over-active imagination. That I was merely the victim of one of my own peculiarly persuasive, high-definition fantasies. Not so, however. It’s all too real, I’m afraid.

Outside, I found one of the younger boys loitering by the barn door, and sent him to fetch Nate and Logan for me. Immediately, Little Bert appeared and took the other kid’s place.

"Jack said we should, ah, hang out here in case, you know, you wanted anything," he stuttered apologetically, as if I had demanded an explanation for his presence.

"Well, that’s fine," I replied, feeling perplexed. How odd and totally unexpected, I was thinking. Bert shifted hesitantly. "Thank you," I added, trying to sound a bit more cheerful. It seemed to me Bert’s complexion looked a little gray. "How was your first night on the farm?" I inquired, feeling a twinge of concern.

"Okay," he answered.

"Good," I said.

Was it already harder to talk to him today than it had been yesterday? Or, was that just my imagination?

Nate and Logan came bounding up to me with huge smiles of greeting on their faces. A funny sort of picture formed in my mind, one where their big, dirty paw prints were smeared all over the front of my shirt.

"’S’up, Jared?" Nate asked.

"I have a little job for you."

I knew I’d have to swear them to secrecy, which I figured in Logan’s case wouldn’t be a problem. He’s practically alingual anyway. Nate, however, was another matter. He likes to feel special, and until he came to Shannon and me, I don’t think there was much in his life to feel special about except perhaps in the negative sense. I couldn’t have him going around bragging about what he knew we had stashed up here. So, first I paid him a compliment. I told him I needed him especially for this task because of his talents with materials and inventories, which happened to be the absolute truth. Then, I also explained that we couldn’t write anything down. We couldn’t have any written records, that he would have to hold all the items and figures in his head. And then I showed them both what we had filled the bus with.

No further explanation necessary. Their eyes were like the moons of Mars.

We began unloading the cartons, boxes, totes and garbage bags full of medical supplies, and piling them in rows along the east end of the building. Cody kept an eye on our progress, trying to explain what went with what so we could organize everything on a semi-utilitarian basis. Still safe in their cases, our old instruments had already been heaped and stacked against the barn’s back wall at some earlier date and time, along with our gear and practically every other bit of production stuff we had no use for anymore. You could see how things were starting to look kinda neglected and dusty from just sitting there. I have no idea what I want to do with all of it now. Well, that’s a decision I can put off for another day.

While we worked, Cody divided his attention between coaching the three of us and attempting to assist Ray, who alternated between swearing earthily at that fickle diesel engine and coaxing it along with sweet talk -- then, in a fit of frustration, he’d resort to cursing again until finally he had the thing roaring like the king of beasts.

When at last we got the entire bus emptied of its payload, and backed it out into the sun-dappled driveway, we discovered there was a plate metal door in the barn’s slab floor that had been hidden underneath all this time. It was locked with a series of dead bolts and latches which I doubt we ever could have broken into, but fortunately the keys weren’t too hard to locate. They’d been left in the desk inside the house. Shannon and Matt had found them early on, but never knew what they went to.

Sometime soon I’ll make another journal entry about what we found when we opened up that door and went down in there. But right now, I want to finish this story first.

(One nightmare at a time.)

Cody drove us the short distance back to the Swallows with me standing right beside him, rocking and swaying on my feet for balance, and staring out the broad front windshield. Already, little by little, the days here have been getting hotter. I watched the asphalt roadway before us heat-shimmer like water in the midday sun.

Shy, inarticulate Logan had crept up silently behind me and was looking over my shoulder. I knew because I felt something brush against my hair, that’s how close he was standing. This was exactly how we’d started out together once -- god, it seems so long ago -- on this tour bus, sharing the vision of an entirely different future. Band and crew, we’d watched it unfold before us, a whole other world convincingly envisioned through a wide expanse of darkly tinted glass. Different, and yet similar in some paradoxical way. I wondered if Logan, in his naturally under-spoken manner, was feeling the same conflicted nostalgia that I was. When Cody swung the wheel, smoothly negotiating the tight turn into the motel’s service driveway, I instinctively put my arm out to brace him so he wouldn’t fall.

As we pulled to a stop, I heard the air brakes hiss a familiar last gasp before Cody shut down the engine. Then together, Ray, Cody, I, and the boys stepped off the bus.

The tribe gathered to stare in curiosity. Many of them had never seen our tour bus before and hardly knew what to think. I saw my brother emerge from the edge of the crowd, and our eyes met in a moment of wordless communication.

I don’t know what I would ever do without him, have I mentioned that before? In a universe that inspires and expires, I think Shannon must be one of those souls who was born on an intake of cosmic breath.

My eyes swept over the rest of the scene with a peculiar detachment. I didn’t see Matt or Tomo present, but maybe right at that particular moment it was just as well. I turned my head, searching for Cody, who as it turned out was still standing right beside me.

"Disable it," I told him.

"You mean the engine?" Ray asked, incredulously.

"Yes," I nodded. "And cut the tires."

There was a motionless pause while they all looked at Cody, waiting for his response. Me, too. I mean, after all, only three weeks ago he’d been an official employee of the company that owned the bus, and answerable to them.

The resolved stare that Cody returned to me was full of hard understanding. If he was regretting the loss of this last symbol of his old life, he wasn’t letting anyone see it now. We both understood the alternatives. And unless we destroyed the vehicle’s potential for military usefulness, chances were we wouldn’t have it very long.

Ray pried open the panel over the engine compartment again, and carefully removed a few essentials, audibly muttering his discontent the whole time. I don’t think he actually disposed of the parts he took out, but I feel safer not knowing exactly what he did do with them.

In these days of steel belted radials, you can’t really slash tires quite like the way it sounds. But Shannon managed to do a pretty good job by first letting the air out safely, and then going after their flaccid, rubbery remains with a pickaxe and a sharp metal pike. Standing aside on the hot, dark ocean of parking lot blacktop, I watched him; stripped to the waist, glistening with sweat; a strange and fitting Queequeg with his mysterious tattoos, striking deadly blows at the carcass of our bus.

One by one, the guys came around to retrieve any remaining personal items of theirs that were still left inside. Tomorrow, Eric will come down from the farm with the truck and tools, and a handpicked crew to begin the process of gutting and salvaging the interior. Tonight, however, I intend to spend one last night in my old bunk, that cramped womb of space I once described as being like a coffin; the sepulcher of my old, discarded life, and the cradle of this misbegotten new one.

 

\---------

023/00

Gamma

The first night I spent alone with Tomo at the Swallows was really tough. Truthfully, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a situation where I felt so inadequate in my life.

But even before that night, in fact as soon as we had arrived safely back home again, there was this dreadful scene that took place out on the parking lot in front of the motel. Despite his silence, I could see for myself how badly Jared was taking the first shock of ‘news’ about Tomo. It was pretty intense. He never even touched him. Didn’t even try.

Then, since we still had to unload the truck, not to mention the fact none of us had eaten a decent meal since breakfast, we all trooped over to Mugs. All, that is, except Shannon who disappeared somewhere with his brother. To give him the rest of the report in private, I suppose, and to work his healing magic on him, if that was possible.

So now, truth be told, there are _two_ more victims of this god-forsaken disaster to look after, instead of just one.

Right before Tomo disappeared, he used to spend a lot of his time running back and forth to the diner across the street, trying to keep an eye on all of us neophytes as we attempted to help cook for the tribe and run the place. A commercial kitchen was an environment Tomo understood very well, and in it, he was God. He’d done a good job of protecting us from overcooking the vegetables, and undercooking the meat, and generally, from giving ourselves food poisoning. So I was thinking perhaps this part of his homecoming might seem a little familiar.

My hopes that he might recognize something about his surroundings were pretty much dashed, however, only seconds after we walked in the doors. Now, instead of using just his one hand to shield his eyes, for some unknown reason he was covering up his whole face with both, and wouldn’t budge a single step farther without me literally pushing him. I didn’t know what to think was wrong, so being clueless, I resorted to doing what I guessed any intelligent parent would do after such a long car ride. I took him to the bathroom.

I tried, but I couldn’t pry his hands away from his face long enough to get him to attend to business. So -- here’s a remarkable irony -- while he would not allow me to take a good, long, intimate look into his eyes, he had no objection to my hands fishing around in the front of his pants. Well, we got through it.

Jack had followed us over from the motel to reheat some leftover stew he’d created out of cut up hunks of pork, a few leeks, and those packages of dried noodles you used to be able to buy at the grocery store. In other words, we were down to using whatever we could get our hands on, but it wasn’t half bad.

That’s when I made the mistake of offering Tomo a forkful of meat and noodles and we both nearly ended up wearing his supper. He was flailing. His arms flew at me in a panic, I still have no idea why. But I did know he’d accepted bread and oranges from my bare fingers agreeably enough earlier in the afternoon, so it didn’t take too much for me to narrow down the source of the problem to the Oneida flatware.

For a horrified moment, I wondered if maybe someone had deliberately tried to injure the inside of his mouth. After all, while I was passing through that hospital emergency room earlier in the day, I’d seen evidence of some pretty medieval looking shit going on elsewhere in this new twilight world we’re living in. Later, when Tomo had calmed down, he did let me check around inside, and I couldn’t see anything wrong. So, it’s just one more thing I don’t suppose I’ll ever really know about what happened to him. The meal was over, though, as far as Tomo was concerned. He never did eat anything that night.

What did we do after that?

I took him back to our room at the compound and tried to show him some of his old belongings, all the things I had been keeping packed away for him, just in case something would jog a memory. But when he wasn’t covering up his face, his eyes were wandering aimlessly. So, that was a waste of time.

He needed a bath, and a serious shampoo intervention, which the nurse who took out his stitches had told me would be okay to do. I wondered how much of a struggle it was going to involve, and whether or not I should call Shannon, or Cody, or somebody else to help me. But Tomo was a lamb about the whole thing. While I ran the water to fill the tub and untied his shoes, he suddenly began to help undress himself like a light bulb of task recognition had switched on in his head.

It literally caused my breath to catch and a feeling of pain to swell in my chest when he pulled off his shirt and I saw the stain of bruises smeared across his ribs. Like someone had kicked him repeatedly. And although I’ve seen Tomo naked before, I had never seen him this thin. I wondered if anyone had been feeding him at all during the last two and a half weeks while he’d been away from us. It made me think about the time Jared did that fasting thing after one of his more demanding -- ridiculously demanding -- film roles.

I settled him into the bath and handed him a washcloth along with the last scrap of soap I’d been hoarding. He knew exactly what they were for and got right to work. As gently as I could I worked shampoo through his hair, massaging his scalp, and with my sudsy fingers, traced lightly over the angry, red scar on the top of his head. I ran a second soapy cloth over his back where he couldn’t reach to wash himself, feeling each bump on his spine, and every prominent rib, and the jut of his shoulder blades protruding under the skin.

Afterward, I stood him under the showerhead to rinse him off. That was a little messier, because I didn’t close the curtain, but I think the warm water running down his body must have felt good. When I got him out of the tub, I bundled him up in towels and dried him off. He smelled so sweet and fresh. Like, new again.

Remembering the diner cutlery debacle, I decided to try offering him his toothbrush by wrapping his own fingers around the handle. He snuffed at the air like a wary animal, scenting the pepperminty odor of the toothpaste, I suppose. They say the sense of smell is one of the most powerful triggers to memory, and I guess they must be right about that, because without a second of hesitation, Tomo opened up his mouth and began scrubbing.

I found him some nightclothes -- a pair of flannel bottoms and a clean t-shirt -- which I dressed him in like an oversized toddler, and then tucked him into bed. All without any fuss. So far, so good. While I took my own shower, I deliberately left the bathroom door open an inch or two in case he needed me for something. I don’t know what, but I didn’t want him to think I was shutting him out. We still had enough propane, so there was plenty of hot water. I let it cascade over every tight muscle and aching joint in my body, and fill the bathroom with its soothing, obscuring fog.

Finally, I shut off the water, and emerged from the clouds of vapor. In a daze of weariness, I found myself staring at my own indistinct features through the haze of moisture that had coated the mirror above our bathroom sink.

Maybe it was going to be okay, I told myself. If only I didn’t have to look at everything in quite so much detail…

As I stepped out of the bathroom, I immediately noticed the bed was empty. Now, that might have caused me to panic, thinking Tomo had made an escape attempt, but before I’d gotten into the shower I had locked the room door, thrown the deadbolt, and set the chain. And everything was still precisely the same as I had left it. An instant later, I saw him crouched in the corner by the closet, on his knees, face to the wall, exactly the way I’d found him in the hospital waiting area.

Geez, I’d been gone all of -- what? -- ten minutes? Was that all it was going to take for him to revert completely? I ran my hand across his shoulders, just like I had the first time that day. He scrambled up the wall joint few anxious inches since there was no way to go into it any farther.

"It’s okay, it’s me," I reassured him. Most of my conversations with Tomo consist of just these few words.

I pulled him away from his niche and put him back into bed, then got under the covers beside him, and shut off the lamp. The minute the light was out he was gone again. Back to his corner. I fumbled to switch on the lamp, and sighed.

Obviously, this was going to be a problem. I decided it would be better not to fight him on it, so I joined him instead. It seemed to me that the easiest and safest thing to do would be to sleep on the floor behind him. That way, if he tried to slip past me and make an escape, hopefully I would wake up and I would know. A sneaking suspicion told me the whole notion of sleep was probably wishful thinking on my part anyhow, but I was holding out a determined hope. After the day we had put in, exhausted wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the way I was feeling.

I stripped the bed of its pillows and blankets and spread them out over the carpet. Last thing before I settled down, I braced a chair under the door handle as one more precaution. If Tomo wanted to run away, he’d definitely have to work at it.

In spite of everything, less that five minutes after I lay down my weary head, I must have fallen into a sleep so deep and so profound, it was practically a coma.

When I woke a few hours later, the pillow beside me was occupied and the air around my face was stirring softly with the quiet rhythm of Tomo’s breathing. I felt the warm weight of a hand resting gently against my hip. There was just enough light bleeding in around the edges of the window curtain for me to see the outline of his form lying next to me under the blankets, and a pair of jet black eyes glittering steadily at me in the dark.

 

\---------

025/00

Beta

Jared had them drag the bus back down here from the farm a couple days ago. Well, not drag exactly, but almost. Cody and Ray had a hell of a time getting it started again after weeks of standing idle, but where there’s a will, there’s a way. Or so they say, and Jared is nothing if not ‘Will’ personified. I don’t think they dared trying to tell him it wasn’t gonna happen. So in the end, miraculously, it did.

Little observation. Ever since we brought Tomo back from Sacramento, Jared has been sending Eric out in charge of the foraging instead of Matt, and it’s been interesting to me seeing what a gay guy thinks we need to be scavenging out of that old life in order to make this new one more livable.

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy a good scrub down with Rosemary Mint aromatherapy shower gel as much as the next person, and I _like_ Eric, I really do. More importantly maybe, I trust him. Okay, I did raise an eyebrow or two when he started bringing back raw silk curtain swags, and shelving units, and Correia glass vases from his foraging expeditions, but then a strange thing began to happen in the family quarters. Strange, in my opinion, that is. I mean, you should have seen them going after stuff like goose down comforters with matching pillow shams, and those gallons and gallons of Sherwin-Williams decorator paint. It was _war_ over shit like that, and all sorts of little… what do they call them -- knick knacks? -- yeah, those too; you can’t even imagine. Until Jared finally made some rules for them about how to divvying up the spoils.

And now the place is actually starting to look kinda homey, in a way.

Okay, it’s not the picture of any home life Jared or I ever knew, but it is a life I recognize. It’s the one we were always on the outside of, peering in.

Eric’s latest trick has been to rip the bushes and flowers right out people’s front yards if no one lives in the house anymore. Then, he hauls everything back here and immediately people start digging holes. At first, I was confused by the interest Jared was showing in all this redecorating, but I think it probably goes back to the fact that he and Eric haven’t had any productions to design together in over a month now. So instead, our whole freaking life here has become one giant over-produced show. No lie.

But it’s not entirely impractical. Once, Eric stole most of a languishing suburban vegetable garden complete with several boxes of Miracle-Gro, and all the tools it took to replant it out in the field behind the diner. Before that, the whole area back there was nothing but wasted space. Now the only drawback is that we have to keep it watered, ‘cause you know southern California. Never rains.

Yep, every morning, he’s got the whole tribe up and working at re-landscaping the entire front of the motel, and weeding the spinach. Sarah just smiles that enigmatic little smile of hers and shakes her head. I think the situation with her and Eric must be improving. Which is good, because for about five minutes, back in the beginning, I wondered if she and our former production manager might not end up tearing each other to pieces over who was going to get to be next to Jared. Probably Jared had the same fear, too, or at least that’s what I imagine, though we never really discussed it with each other.

I think everybody knows how dangerous things like that can be if they’re left on a slow simmer for too long. Because you might not notice it when the pot suddenly boils dry. We both knew from past experience that wasn’t an issue Jared enjoyed being distracted by constantly. Not with those two, or anybody else for that matter. So.  
  
Now, he’s dealt with it in his own definitive way. And I’m… I’m okay with it. I guess.  
  
The Echelon girls (yeah, they still call themselves that) wanted to put in a garden for Jared and me next to our new "home." There’s about fifteen to twenty feet of lawn between the end of the back parking lot where the bus is located, and the tree line where the woods begin. Actually, the bus isn’t that far from the spot where we buried Dan White, so Jared told them a garden would be fine. Kind of half memorial park, you know?

Last night around twilight, I was standing outside contemplating the good-sized section of our yard where they’ve torn up the grass, but haven’t planted anything new yet. The earth in that place looks raw, like a fresh wound. As I watched the sun slowly sinking below the horizon, I became very aware of the image it created. I mean, here’s Jared, trying to make a home with me on our old, crippled bus, back behind the human beehive that’s otherwise known as the Swallows, just a few feet away from a gravesite. Somewhere between the living and the dead.

I can’t stop thinking about that. Or him. And this reserved, self-aware, but very ambivalent public statement he’s made about the unspoken nature of things between us. Him and me, and what’s been happening again recently. Something that's has happened before during other dark moments in our life together, in the midst of some equally deep nightfalls. So, it’s nothing new. For me, it’s a dependency and an addiction which no amount of time, destruction, or change will ever eradicate. For Jared, though, I think it’s something else entirely.

Here’s what I know about Jared. His life is his art. He uses it to make pictures about what’s going on inside of himself; the things that he won’t ever reach for the plain, unmasked words to say. Any one of his actions is worth a thousand words, but usually it all comes and goes so quickly. If you really want to understand him, don’t blink.

Today, I caught Sarah looking out her back door at me with a dark, unfathomable stare. I couldn’t quite read its meaning, but her gaze was cool and steady. And she did not blink. Good girl.

Eric, meanwhile, is back up at the farm tonight where he intends to stay permanently, as I understand it. With his eyes wide shut. So many productions, so little time.

And me? Well, I don’t know what you’d want to say about me these days, and probably I don’t want to -- but once upon a time, in our old life, I was the drummer. The one who kept the beat. Sometimes I think, like Jared says, those days are truly gone and it’s some other unknown quantity that keeps us marching towards whatever obscure future awaits us. I feel so out of control, and as of today, it seems like there’s nothing left for me but my other vocation. See, whenever I wasn’t playing drums, most of the time you could still find me hanging around somewhere close to my brother. Because I was also the guy who always had a camera in his hand performing this simple, routine drill.

Check the light, set the shutter speed, peer into the view finder, and... don’t blink.

\-- stop --


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Four "Hunters and Gatherers"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* Jared discovers that more than their tour bus was hidden in Tom Watson’s barn. We all have secrets, but some are more dangerous than others. From yesterday, it calls him.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.

\--------- * --------- * ---------  
"I thought I could  
organize freedom --  
  
how American of me."  
\--------- * --------- * ---------

　

028/00

Alpha

Every morning I watch Tomo emerge from the room he shares with Matt, dressed in clean clothes, with his face shaved smooth, and his hair neatly combed. Looking very well cared for. And I treat him to my fondest smile and tell him how handsome he looks.

Today, Matt has taken what’s left of his long hair in front and fastened it towards the back in a short ponytail. At my words, Tomo reaches up self-consciously to pat his head, as if reassuring himself everything is in order. And as always, his eyes wander everywhere, but never connect with mine. Still, I think he’s starting to understand something about what I’m saying to him during this daily morning ritual of ours.

When he first began to recognize his own reflection in the mirror, the sight of that wide, bare patch along his scalp seemed to upset him. The doctor must have shaved it, I guess, to accommodate his stitches. Now, he’s got a nice thick growth of fur going on there, and that’s made things a little better. The rest of his hair has gotten kind of long and shaggy too, but we’ve been letting it go. No one is quite ready to try approaching him with a pair of scissors yet.

I know, at least I think I know, he’s formed a relationship with Matt that’s loving and protective, but which I also suspect has a sexual expression of some kind. Why that should surprise me, or anyone else, I don’t know. They’re both grown men, and in spite of everything that’s happened and what they’ve both had to cope with, life goes on. In fact, that’s one of the things life demands of us, that we go on. And sometimes its drives can be much stronger than even our need to see an end to it all. Thankfully.

Just to be clear, what I'm trying to say is, I haven’t formed an opinion about their sexual involvement because of anything I’ve seen them do that’s overt. Or, because I know they share just the one bed at night in that room of theirs when really, there’s no need to anymore. That choice by itself wouldn’t be much news between any of the four of us. Not really. No, I guess it’s something else about the unassuming way I see them interacting with each other physically.

And I find myself thinking about the life we once had, and what might have been instead.

But… what’s the use of that?

Matt and I are sitting in the other Guardhouse, the one we call "Two," and I’m listening to the drone of the shower in the background. He’s pouring over a thick stack of paper documents that’s been steadily growing thicker ever since I confirmed our official status as a Sacramento protectorate community. Amazingly, it seems like every time we have contact with the North, there’s a direct, quantifiable result in terms of new regulations and procedures to follow. Even in these worst of times, the most significant advancements our overseers seem able to provide us with always involve an exponential explosion of bureaucracy.

I ask you, where are their priorities? Who has time for all this bullshit? Not me.

"Well," says Matt mumbling to himself, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, "the way I read it, unless and until the Health Department can afford to divert resources from the more pressing matters of city waste disposal, and avoiding a post-Crisis health epidemic, they aren’t about to resume processing marriage license applications from the County Clerk’s Office any time soon. And little protectorates like ours here at the Swallows are on our own to make up the rules as we go along."

I grunt at him. So that’s why he’s been going at this all morning like somebody’s goddamn legal assistant. Somehow, somewhere, love has blossomed among the ruins. And unlucky Matthew has been pressed into the thankless task of talking me into taking an official stance. Briefly, I wonder who took the plunge, and when the hell this happened. Then I decide, no, I don’t wonder. Not at all. It’s none of my fucking business. And no one, I repeat, no one, is going to make it my fucking business. I feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and bury the dead. More than enough corporal acts of mercy for any man.

Their domestic arrangements are their own affair. As are mine.

"Actually, I was more interested in what information there was about squatters’ rights," I respond, flicking a finger at the jumble of advisories, bulletins and booklets that’s piled up between us, trying to change the subject. I really do need a better filing system.

Abruptly, the sound of the shower ceases, only to be replaced by Shannon’s hacking cough and a loud, unbecoming snort. He still smokes. I don’t know for certain where he gets the cigarettes, but I have my suspicions.

The renovations on the bus have proceeded to the point where, basically, my brother and I are living in a stripped out hulk. Eric and his crew have gutted it of everything I have no wish to keep, and now we’re down to nothing but the bare frame in places. It’s like living inside the skeleton of some great, deceased beast; sleeping under the dome of its ribs and bones.

At the moment, Shannon and I share a solitary mattress on the floor in the back where someday -- soon, I hope -- there will be a real bedroom. For now, it sort of reminds me of our old room at home when we were teenagers, which also suffered from a dearth of furniture. Mostly due to my rather severe personal aesthetic at that time. Back then, we’d filled the place with Shannon's drum kit and my guitars, plus all of our other well-used, battered equipment, and we would jam in there until all hours. Whenever exhaustion and the dark of night finally overtook us, Shannon usually ended up crashing with me in my bed thanks to the lack of space on his. Admittedly, his bed might have been more accessible if we hadn’t buried it under the necessities of our ‘art.’ But everything about that arrangement was exactly the way I liked it. And life was good with us, or so I thought, until one day when he suddenly decided to move out. Then, right after that, I left for college, and while we were apart it all started to go to hell with him. That’s a long, long story.

But to get back to the remodeling. So far, they’ve figured out a way to hook up some PVC pipe to the motel’s plumbing and run it across the parking lot to the bus for us so we have water, and Eric handled the electric without much fuss. But, being able to empty our waste tank into the village’s sewer line is going to take a little more work and be a lot trickier. In the meantime, every morning we get up and come over to the men’s quarters to shower, and get ready to face the day.

Obviously, we could very easily have a nice, comfortable room here at the ‘inn’ until all the interior work is done, but I don’t know. There’s something about the whole process that I want to… inhabit.

I glance over at Matt, who’s still trying to encourage Tomo to finish his breakfast Cheerios. No milk, no spoon. Just a dry bowl of cereal he seems to think Tomo can be convinced to munch down like popcorn.

Shannon finally emerges from the bathroom and drags his fingers through his short, damp hair. That’s about as far as his personal grooming regimen goes these days, I’ve noticed. He picks up his mug of morning coffee and drinks down every last drop of the cold, muddy brew that’s left in the bottom, because this is the end of what we had. Now we’re out. Daily, our "short supply" list keeps growing longer, while our reserves and resources continue to shrink.

Which brings me directly to the first item on the day’s agenda, even if it’s not necessarily the one I personally consider the most important. Whoever observed an army moves on its stomach got that right. Clean laundry helps, too. And any minute now, I suppose, the usual gaggle of petitioners will start queuing up by the door to add more detail to the tally of our communal woes.

So, now that we’re all present and accounted for, or as present as some of us can be, I guess it’s time I called this little meeting to order.  
  
*********

Well, last week I promised to tell the tale of what we found under that mysterious metal door in the barn floor over at the farm, so here it comes.

The first thing I have to say is, prying that stubborn sucker loose from its fitted steel molding took me, and Ray, and both of the boys heaving on a couple of crowbars for all we were worth. Finally, slowly, the door began to rise, screeching abrasively on its protesting hinges. Once we got it moving, though, it wasn’t really that heavy. Not for the four of us, but it was solid. You could probably have burned that freaking barn to the ground, I was thinking, or set off some kind of fuel tank explosion directly over it, and I doubt anything would have penetrated that door. In another minute, we would know why.

Before me, a narrow concrete staircase descended into the dark. The boys stared wide-eyed as I stood before the threshold, leaning down, like I was about to risk the curse of Tutanhkamun. Cautiously, I groped around the doorway opening, hoping to find an electrical switch that might turn on some lights. I was pretty sure no one had used those stairs for a quite while. The stale, dusty odor that drifted up to greet me was free of any telltale sign of dampness, like the smell of mold or mildew. Watertight, I realized. Interesting.

Already, in the faint traces of daylight that trickled into the dark below, I could see two rows of hardware shelving and military-style lockers hugging the walls on either side of the stairs. My fingers finally stumbled over the toggle switch I had been hunting for, and I snapped the power on. A stark flash of bare bulbs flared in the darkness.

Next to my ear, I heard Cody’s low whistle. He’d been peering curiously over my shoulder and at that moment I couldn’t tell if he was more surprised or impressed with what we saw. Probably a little of both.

I eased myself down the narrow concrete steps and stood blinking in the sharp, artificial light. A long room-like space opened up before my eyes, half hidden in deep, jagged shadows. Without hesitation, Cody followed after me, angling his larger feet along the short staircase. He stopped to look over a couple of multi-gallon water storage containers, each pressed against the smooth wall surface right beside us, and directly above them was an entire shelf full of bottled iodine tablets. Just like the ones we’d gotten from the Mexican aid workers.

Behind me, I heard the soft scuffle of Nate and Logan’s shoes as they came creeping down after us.

"Now, don’t touch nothin’," Ray’s voice warned anxiously, as he lumbered along behind them.

At his words, Cody must have seen me hesitate reflexively. "Oh, I think it’s alright," he said quietly, nudging past me. "Just be careful."

"Nothing’s padlocked," I noted, gazing at the ranks and ranks of stacked storage lockers and open shelving units crammed into a space that reminded me of nothing so much as an underground vault. Or, maybe some kind of emergency shelter.

"Nah - " Cody replied. He leaned over cautiously, checking around the lid of a squat metal box before flipping it open. "Tom Watson had that door pretty well secured. I think once you were in, though, he just wanted to be able to get to things as quickly as possible." Right about then, I noticed there was a big, red cross on the container that had attracted Cody’s attention. First aid kit. I moved up behind him to look closer.

More than one kit, actually. A neat row of them, each in its own army green shoulder bag. Curiously, I watched as Cody explored the contents of the first pack eagerly.

"Suture," he announced with reverence, holding up his find.

"That’s good," I said, thinking about the gaps in our medical inventory.

"Very good," he answered happily, and continued digging through the bag.

Encouraged by that, I straightened and looked around some more, checking out the contents of a series of shelves lining the opposite wall. Turned out they were full of all kinds of gear I was warily familiar with. Flashlights and lightsticks, military issue fire-starter, tinder, some odd-looking, very compact fishing equipment, compasses and map cases. Folding knives. Backpacks. My gaze came to rest on a stack of boxed nutrition bars, and below them, several cases of MREs. Well, now. Here was something we could certainly use, yes indeed. I reached for an unopened carton of the energy bars that was marked "Chocolate" and held it perhaps a bit too enthusiastically between my hands.

Both Nate and Logan had spotted them too, and I could feel their eyes fixed on me in hopeful expectation.

"Didn’t you get any lunch?" I quipped, knowing full well they’d gotten exactly the same rations as the rest of us.

I was trying to press my lips together, fighting the urge to smile. But, I’ll tell you, there really isn’t much that’s funny about the responsibility for finding enough fodder to feed a whole herd of growing, adolescent boys like the ones I’ve got up at the farm.

"Well, yeah, we ate…" Nate confessed. "But…"

With Nate, there’s always a "but."

"…maybe somebody should try one anyway, you know, to ah-h, see if they’re still any good."

"Why don’t you just look for the expiration date?" I suggested, handing him the box. I watched his shoulders sag, his disappointment was palpable. "Then, if they’re not too old," I added, "you can have one."

"Like, one each? Or, do we have to share?" Logan piped up excitedly. There’s a perfect example of the effects of scarcity, and what it has done to our lives recently. Unexpectedly, an episode from my own childhood began playing in my head.

The box twirled in their hands as they hurried to search the label. "December two thousand fifteen!" Logan declared in triumph. "They’re still good!"

My lord, I had to stop and reflect a minute. Because I was pretty sure I couldn’t ever recall hearing my littlest tech say that many words all at once in his entire life. For him, it was practically a speech. Surely, that deserved a reward. Lately, I must confess, I’ve noticed my heart always yields a little more readily where Logan is concerned.

"You may have one each," I told them. "Ray? How about you? Cody?"

Cody declined, but Ray took one, which I saw him slip into his pocket. I knew the boys would end up with it later.

It had never occurred to me to ask Ray about his life before the Crisis, and in all our time together he’d never volunteered anything, either -- never a word about a wife, or a family -- but now I found myself wondering about all that. When we’d first met, I’d judged him to be a few years older than Shannon, with the kind of comfortable, middle-aged thickness around his waist that suggested a fairly stress-free home life. Our current Spartan diet had eliminated most of his spare tire, and the sheer physicality of our day-to-day existence was taking care of the rest. He never complained. I watched him bend down protectively over Logan, who was crouched on the floor by a couple of mysterious cardboard cases. Next to them, stood an identical pair of latched bins with watertight sealing rings.

"Look," I heard Logan murmur over his shoulder. He stuck a hand into the first box and lifted out a cylindrical metal can. "It says ‘green beans,’ but it’s so light." He frowned, testing the weight of it in his palm. "Like they’re old and all dried up." He reached in again to retrieve another.

"They’re dried on purpose," Ray explained. "Makes them easier to carry if you’re on foot. And when you add the water back, there’s more food volume. Lasts longer this way, too."

"Here’s cabbage." Logan’s nose wrinkled. "And ‘shortening powder.’ That’s weird. Oh wow, soy bacon bits."

The bins, when opened, turned out to be full of dried grain; corn and barley.

"Probably dried his own." Cody’s low voice was at my ear. Then, his hand pointed silently to the next set of shelves and the pegs hanging above them. More knives. Military and hunting types in their sheaths. Multitool, too. And sharpeners. Axes, machetes…

"What do you think?" I responded quietly. "Survivalist? Or…?" My question was still hanging in the air, unfinished, as Nate slipped passed us and farther back into the gloom.

Just as our eyes had begun to follow him, they landed on more boxes. Boxed ammunition, that is. Boxes and boxes of it, piled on shelf after shelf. And beyond that, gun racks mounted to the walls. I was about to sputter a warning, when suddenly …

"Whoa, what’s this?" Nate whispered, impulsively flipping open a small polyethylene carrying case. I had a split second to note its protective foam lining as his hand closed around the stock of the weapon nestled inside. Before I could caution him, he’d whipped around, unintentionally pointing the barrel first in my direction and then in Logan’s, eyes bright with awe.

"A pistol," I hissed stiffly, closing my fingers over his as smoothly and swiftly as I could. Firmly, I extracted the gun from his grip. Right away I could see, for some reason, it had been put away with the safety off.

"The magazine goes in the bottom," I exhaled, calming my nerves and checking to be sure there was nothing in the chamber; it was empty. "The slide goes back and forth," I continued, "and bullets come out the loud end."

"Oh." Nate giggled, glancing up at my expression. I know I was still clenching my teeth.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Glock 22," I said, looking a bit closer. Probably made within a few years of the model I was more familiar with. Gently, I squeezed the trigger and eased the slide back, pulling down on the disassembly lever. Inside it was nice and clean. That’s one of the things about a Glock. It doesn’t take much maintenance.

Ray had pulled Nate back and was standing in front of a nine-gun rack of rifles. The first of many bolted to the walls. Carbines, automatics; I was stunned at the array and variety of weapons. But, it was an old M16 that seemed to have captured Ray’s attention. An M16 is a pretty recognizable gun. It’s been an infantry favorite since the Vietnam War era, and lots and lots of guys have carried one doing their bit for God and country. Depending on the model, it’ll fire anywhere from seven hundred and fifty to nine hundred rounds per minute, cyclic rate. That’s a lot of bullets.

"Vet, maybe," Ray offered, lifting the weapon from its resting place. For a second I didn’t understand what he meant, then I realized he must have been listening to Cody and me, speculating about Tom Watson.

"Yeah, and then what?" I asked. "How does that explain all this?" It was almost more than I could take in. M4s, AK-47s, a couple of shotguns, too. Berettas and Colt semiautomatics in the pistol racks right next to my elbow. "It’s a freakin’ armory down here, Ray, not a VFW post."

"Sometimes it’s hard to leave the war behind," he answered, grasping the gun’s barrel in one hand while the fingers of his other hand trailed ambivalently over the stock.

"Well," Cody grunted. "That explains all the Celox."

"What’s that?" Nate asked him.

"Something a medic uses in the field to stop a hemorrhage," Cody replied.

"Like, from a hunting accident?" Nate’s brow puckered, his eyes finally darkening with the sense of how serious our discussion had become.

"Only if what you’re hunting is shooting back," Ray responded.

We got out of there then, and locked everything up again. And again, I swore Nate and Logan to silence, although I knew from the deeply disturbed looks etched on their faces, our secret would be practically impossible for them to keep from the other boys that night. Feeling I had no choice, I decided to bring them back down to the Swallows with us temporarily, and bunk them in with some of the older men. Mature guys who they could talk to if that’s what they needed the chance to do.

Of course, we had to tell Matt and Shannon and the rest of the council about what we’d found. That was an interesting meeting.

All this time, while I’ve been writing this entry, Tomo has been lying peacefully on the floor of my office -- or at least what’s starting to shape up as my office -- on the bus. He’s got his own blank notebook, and a collection of pencils and pens he’s been occupying himself with, drawing pictures. I can tell from his breathing how absorbed he is in his task. After our little chat this morning, I sent Matt out with a foraging team to investigate more of the territory to the north of us. Up along that new road they found over a week ago, with an access-way from the farm. Consequentially, most of my afternoon has been taken up with, for lack of a better word, babysitting. But that’s about to change.

Close by, I hear the distinctive rumble of a vehicle motor and the crunch of tires against our service driveway’s gravel surface, here at the back of the compound. One vehicle, and it’s not our truck. The unknown driver has elected to approach us using the rear entrance rather than the obvious one in front. He (or she?) pulls up directly behind the bus, and stops. All this I can tell just by listening. Then, who ever it is shuts their engine down.

The sound of Shannon’s muffled voice drifts in through my half-open window. He’s hailing someone with a casual, but formal greeting. An acquaintance, but not necessarily a friend. I close my book and square both feet on the floor. Tomo looks up; his scribbling ceases. He’s sensed my heightened alertness, and a shadow of worry passes over his face.

"It’s alright," I tell him softly. Now I can hear the rapid patter of Shannon’s footfalls as he jogs towards the front of the bus. I rise from my chair.

"We’ve got company," my brother grunts. His heavy work boots come stomping up the bus’ stairs. My eyebrow cocks at him curiously, but I’m not really surprised about the rest of what he has to say.

"Captain Franklin Grayson just pulled into our driveway." He gives me a grin that looks more like a grimace and continues in his mocking drawl, "Y’all ready for this?"  
  
  
\---------

028/00

Xi

 

     

\-- stop --

　

*A/N: I asked MyrJuhl to contribute some drawings to this chapter for "Tomo’s Journal." My (none-too-helpful) instructions were that they should be simple, direct line drawings; child-like, or naïve in style; a single subject to a page; hopefully, something that would reflect Tomo’s perception of his world. Here you will see her interpretation of my request. Love them. Thank you so much, Myr.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Four "Hunters and Gatherers"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* Jared has a unexpected visitor who complicates his life. Things are definitely getting edgier between the band members. Seems like they’re all inching closer and closer to a meltdown. Meanwhile the rest of the world just got a whole lot more dangerous in general.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.  
> Warning: (this chapter) I see dead people.

\--------- * --------- * ---------  
 _"I thought I could_  
 _organize freedom --_

 _how American of me."_  
\--------- * --------- * ---------

　

028/00

Alpha

Early this morning while I was still getting dressed it suddenly occurred to me I never did get that pair of jeans back from Sam before she left. Then, I wondered if she’d hung on to Tomo’s shirt, too. It was a kind of random thought. I don’t know why I was thinking about that, but I did. And ever since, it seems like Sam has been drifting in and out of my memory all day.

So. I had a visitor. The first thing I did while Shannon went to fetch our honored guest was take a quick glance out one of our bus’ tinted rear windows, and hoped my spying wasn’t too conspicuous. From what I was able to see, peeping trough the darkened glass, the entire compliment of Captain Frank’s retinue had arrived in a single jeep. I spotted a dark-haired, waifish, very likely under-aged driver, plus two sturdier looking specimens wielding urban assault rifles, but that was all. These days, any travel undertaken in a lone vehicle seems foolhardy and a tad arrogant to me, even given their display of firepower. However, maybe Grayson’s decision to come calling without dragging along a lot of excess muscle was calculated. He was being polite enough. After all, he’d waited to be invited in.

Less that a second after I pulled my eyes away from the window, I noticed that just outside the bus door Jack had mysteriously appeared from nowhere and, inexplicably, was standing toe-to-toe with one of Grayson’s jar-headed bodyguards, a hunk of beef jerky so formidable he was at least twice Jack’s size. Now, that alone would be a sight grave enough to give me pause, because next to Frank’s military police, my normally affable former guitar tech looked like the runt of the litter. And I couldn’t even begin to imagine what might have provoked him into behaving that way. Nevertheless, I could have sworn I heard genuine snarling.

But maybe even worse, I suddenly realized that the Guardhouses had emptied themselves of their entire complement, too. And now, all my guys were standing around on the asphalt of the back parking lot twitching with pent up aggression, while at the same time trying to look casual and not appear ill-at-ease. Lovely. Crazy fucking bastards! I could feel my blood pressure starting to throb behind my eyes. What the fuck was Jack thinking?

Oh, well, probably he was thinking something like, god forbid I should have to present myself to Braeburn County’s official, federally designated mercenary-slash-overseer with fewer trappings of state than whatever Cap’n Frank has brought along with him. And in my very own compound no less. I heard myself issue an involuntary sigh. Their concern for my safety -- and dignity -- was touching, but laughable. I mean, I couldn’t imagine any of these little pretensions were impressing Franklin the First one bit. But, maybe they thought it was worth a try.

Behind me, I heard Tomo rustling his papers into a neat pile, and I turned around just in time to see him hiding them under my desk. "It’s okay, babe. Really," I told him. He did not look reassured.

Still outside, moving up slowly towards the front of the bus, I watched as Shannon conducted a curiously hushed but animated, one-sided conversation with the good commandant. Now what was that all about? Perhaps he was giving Frank a crash course in rudimentary Leto protocol before ushering him into the Hallowed Presence? Such as, do not ask any questions about the film career, or that’ll be the end of the interview right then and there.

Ha. I wouldn’t have put it passed him.

But then again, I worried, maybe that wasn’t it at all. And immediately, I felt a familiar, unpleasant surge of anxiety quickening in my chest.

No, my apprehension whispered. Maybe it was something else entirely.  
  
  
\---------

028/00

Beta

I smiled a slightly too tense smile as I climbed aboard the bus, leading the way for Frank while trying to maintain as much decorum as possible. Not an easy thing to do with my hair all sticking up in sweaty spikes and clods of mud falling off of my boots.

We entered using the forward door with Jack and, uh, Frank’s _silverback_ bringing up the rear. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the low light. There stood Jared, a motionless silhouette of icy calm. Without exchanging a single word, our honor guard automatically stationed themselves to the right and left at the top of the stairs, not even so much as looking at each other. I had to hand it to Jack. He was doing a pretty good job of mirroring his counterpart, although there was no chance in hell anyone would ever believe for a minute this was what he did for a living.

Then, in the middle of all the clutter, before I could even attempt to present Captain Grayson to my brother, he nearly smacked his head on a section of electrical harness hanging out of our ceiling. Oh, man. Smooth. So, while I scrambled to hold wires out of the way, Frank tried to save the moment by graciously extending his hand to Jared and saying a few non-committal words about their first meeting. Just to remind him, I suppose.

Only maybe there was more to it than I thought, because instantly I swear I saw Jared’s pupils contract into thin, serpent-like slits. No lie. That façade Jared puts up of cool, understated menace -- whenever I watch him do that, it always gives my blood a thrill. Because you can literally feel the atmosphere around you getting chillier. And more venomous.

Even Tomo must have decided he might be safer on his feet, because all at once he stood up and hovered uncertainly just behind my brother’s shoulder. I do have to say, though, there have been other times I’ve noticed how antsy Tomo tends to get whenever the room he’s in starts filling up with men. So it could have just been that.

With barely more than a civil word or two, Jared motioned for Frank to take a seat, which he did very cautiously, matching my little sib menace for menace and coiling himself defensively onto the end of our couch. Yeah, it’s the same corner couch that used to be in the lounge in back. Well, the lounge is gone now, and so is my old game console that used to be back there too, did I mention that? Oh-h, yeah. But, Eric had salvaged the couch and hauled it up front to make a seating area for our new meeting room. And that’s exactly where Frank was sitting while he and Jared eyed each other like a pair of king cobras.

I already knew how the next part was going to go because I've seen it all before. Jared was about to let everyone in attendance know precisely where they ranked in the scheme of things. According to his personal accounting, of course. I’ve watched him do this to interviewers, fans, other bands we’ve toured with, record company executives, even minor functionaries of state like when we were in China. It definitely sets the tone. He’s always polite enough, but…

First he turned to Tomo and, whispering softly, being ever so gentle, calmly talked him back down to his place on the floor again. He took his sweet time about it, too, not paying Frank one whiff of attention throughout the entire exercise. Just to make his priorities perfectly clear. No, "please excuse me," or "I’ll only be a minute." And I knew that until Jared felt he’d made his point, all we could do was sit and wait. And watch. See? Here’s another prime example of my brother’s life in pictures that’s worth a thousand words.

Only, and you’ll have to excuse me for this, there are some situations where I think Jared could just as easily save himself and others the trouble of all the dramatics. Because sometimes I think he reveals more than he intends. I was sitting there on the opposite end of the couch across from him and inside my gut things were twisting a little. Whether he'd meant to or not -- and right at that moment I really couldn't be sure -- my brother had made me nearly as invisible and inconsequential as Frank. Grayson never stirred. He watched the three of us, rapt with attention as the whole scene played itself out before him. I admit, it was everything I could do to keep perfectly still. I suppose he noticed that, too. The entire time Jared was soothing and cooing in response to Tomo’s anxious fidgeting, I was sullenly wondering whether or not our guest had figured out what the deal was yet. Well, Frank’s a bright boy. If he didn’t get it right then, sooner or later he would solve the riddle.

Finally, my brother settled himself ceremoniously into that impervious-looking solid oak chair of his that sits right next to his "new" desk. I’ll get to that fucking thing in a minute. Jesus.

Almost immediately, Frank began offering diplomatic pleasantries trying to ease the conversation in the right direction. I figured that was the way it was gonna be between them for a while, 'til they got their fill of testing and poking at one another for sport. So I gave myself permission to ignore them both, at least until they quit posturing and got down to business. Besides, my mind wouldn’t stop wandering anyway.

So, about the desk. Somewhere, Eric had found this incredible, enormous roll-top desk which he’d salvaged and hauled back to the compound for Jared. A genuine American colonial antique. If you ask me, it’s definitely one of our production manager's more "novel" acquisitions. Heavy, impractical, it’s like living with a fucking dinosaur. They had to separate the desk top from the two sets of drawers that fit underneath just to get the damn thing through the bus doors. And as far as I can tell, the only good part of it is it can be locked.

Jared kind of likes it though. I think in his present state of mind it must appeal to his sense of history, and as something solid that's survived its own war with fate. It does have a kind of aura, and for all I know it could have belonged to one of the fucking Founding Fathers. There’s a big ol’ behemoth matching bookcase that goes with it, plus the ancient desk chair I’ve already mentioned, that Jared loves to sit in and roll around the floor on those annoying, squeaking castors.

Speaking of which. Suddenly, Jared sat forward making the chair creak, and not a moment too soon I tuned back in to the conversation just in time to hear him offering Frank some tea. I snapped my head up, glaring at him. He was not actually going to send me off on an errand to fetch _tea_ for them, was he?

No, he wasn’t. Gracefully, Jared rose from where he was sitting and headed towards our modest kitchenette cooktop himself. He was going to make the Captain’s tea with his own two hands. Cute. I tried to choke back a laugh, but it took some real effort. Sometimes the simplicity of Jared’s charm can be very disarming. In fact, I was estimating his sudden change of attitude would take maybe, ah, all of two more minutes, max, to totally disarm Frank. Or, give him vertigo from trying to decipher Jared's moods, which as a strategy for keeping an enemy off-balance somtimes works equally well.

"I’m sorry I can’t offer you coffee, but we’re out, and it’s so hard to get these days," my brother simpered.

Oh, freaking drop it, Jared, for once, will you please?

"I think I can help you with that," Frank offered mildly.

Okay, there, see? I was wrong. It only took him about thirty seconds, and now Frank was giving him presents. Cripes. And, careful with the coffee Frank, I was thinking, or I will really have some serious explaining to do. Goddamn, my brother. He is good at this.

Jared paused for one barely perceptible instant. During which I could practically feel his thoughts crawling all over me like a body search. Fuck. But then he reached into one of our brand new cupboards and said, "Cut black, or green?"

"Green would be nice," Frank ventured hopefully. "I don’t suppose you have any sugar?"

"Mm, sugar is nearly impossible to find, but I do have some good local honey," Jared answer pleasantly, and he smiled. "Do you know the Westfalls? The family who owns the gas station here in town?" I watched him press his lips together, create a little pause, then quickly continue. "Lucky for them they’ve been very well supplied with fuel lately, so they’ve been able to reopen their business. Ah… it’s her brother-in-law who keeps bees."

"Why, yes," replied Frank quietly.

See, here’s how it works. The Swallows is ours, and we are part of the Sacramento Protectorate, but technically the rest of Gabriel Crossing is still under the National Guard’s jurisdiction, and that’s a pretty big technicality from where I’m sitting at the moment. So, naturally the local Guard captain is likely to know a few things about the town and the people in it. Especially concerning someone who is in any way connected with a vital resource. Like gasoline. Because for now and probably the foreseeable future, all fuel distribution is federally regulated.

The point is, here I am in a room with these two predators while they pace their cages, back and forth, and stare at one another through the bars of their respective territories.

After hesitating for a second, probably from simply trying to regain his balance on this roller coaster, Frank went, "Their son broke his leg recently."

And Jared said, "Yes."

Oh, fine. Now they were going to sit around hashing over all the local gossip and clucking at each other like a pair of old hens.

Just as well, probably. I let their voices become a low droning in the back of my mind again. Yeah, I’ve had more years of experience than I’d care to count keeping up with Jared’s little conversational games, but right then I wasn’t feeling it. Plus, I was not at all sure that double-teaming Frank was in my own best interest.

Absently, I watched Jared set out four mugs on the breakfast bar while waiting for the water to boil. That’s another thing. Now, we’ve got a small breakfast bar that Eric put in right next to our tiny kitchen. I keep thinking that saving the kitchen was probably Jared’s idea originally, but the whole remodel is strictly Eric’s. Which might be okay if it wasn’t so… yellow. _Sunshine yellow_. What’s wrong with blue, I’d like to know? Or green? Not that anybody even asked me. Like, a nice, pleasant, restful sage green? Or, how about a simple, average beige for that matter? ‘Cause it goes with everything, right? Anything but this buttercup yellow. Or whatever the hell it is.

When eventually I took the time to look back at Grayson, his eyes were all over Tomo. I wondered what he imagined he saw there. Our broken angel was mindlessly drawing on himself with a red marker. Slashing away, making hash marks all up and down his arms, and it was not the most comforting sight you’ve ever seen, let me tell you. Just then, as the water began to simmer, Jared suddenly shut off the flame.  
  
He has this thing about not steeping green tea too long, or at too high a temperature. Or Captain Frank either, so it would seem. I mean, now that apparently they were going to be best friends and all.

Man, I tell you what. I’ll be fucking goddamned if I’m letting Eric pick out the bed.  
  
  
\---------

028/00

Alpha

Today I sent Matt out with a foraging team to investigate more of the territory to the north of us. I haven’t asked him to take charge of an away mission since he brought Tomo back from Sacramento, and I confess, only part of my reason for that was because of Tomo.

I think, all in all, Tomo is probably more resilient than we give him credit for. You just can’t push him, that’s all. For instance, after his first few uncertain days back at the compound, I noticed he seemed to be getting into the old routines again a little bit, like he found them predictable. Also, gradually, he gravitated towards my brother’s companionship like before, and it wasn’t long until they fell into a comfortable, nonverbal way of relating that wasn’t entirely unlike the comic, physical friendship they’d once shared in that other life.

In fact, just the other morning after my shower, I stepped out of the bathroom and almost tripped over the two of them rolling and wrestling on the Guardhouse floor, locked in a to-the-death tickle fight. Tomo was squealing and making an eerie, keening sound that under other circumstances I might have found alarming. But, since it was practically the only utterance we’d heard from him since he returned to us, it was music to my ears.

That’s when I decided Matt might just as well go out foraging again. It took me another two days to convince him, though.

In the meantime, Eric had been doing a nice job in Matt’s place, but recently, I’ve been keeping Eric here to work on the bus interior. So, Shannon went a few times, scrounging around in his own unique but effective fashion, and other times I sent Jack. Today, though, I needed to send Matthew with his steady, pragmatic good sense. Our next aid distribution is still weeks away, and there are so many things we are running short of. Lately, what little we’ve been able to acquire through the local trade network has been much, much less than what it takes to supply our needs.

In fact, in a moment of desperation, I’d even okayed sending Shannon out beyond the other end of town to see that friend of his, Bobby -- the café owner -- hoping maybe there was something he knew that might help us. Now, perhaps, I have reason to regret that decision, I don’t know. Bobby offered Shannon what he could in terms of goods and his personal contacts, but truthfully, there’s only so much anybody is able to do these days. Basically, we are all victims of a broken supply chain.

And as if shortages weren’t enough, to further complicate matters, there’s been a minor explosion in the rat population recently, which if you think about it was probably inevitable. The little bastards are sneaky, too, and some of them are smart. They get into everything. At the moment, they have numbers on their side. Seems like the humans are going to have some competition in the race to inherit the planet. We’ve had to seal up the diner like a fort under siege every night, and I issued one of my edicts that no one shall keep any foodstuffs stashed in their rooms anymore. Well, that was popular, not to mention practically unenforceable.

It was Cody, though, who first reminded me that a plague of rats could mean something much worse that having to deal with their droppings and the occasional bite. Actually, I think it was his pointed use of the word "plague" that was most helpful in focusing my attention on the problem.

But that wasn’t the most pressing matter on my mind today.

So far, I haven’t mentioned the peculiar buddyship my brother seems to have struck up with the redoubtable Captain Franklin Grayson. Partly because I hardly know what to make of it. It’s not like Frank comes nosing around personally all the time. Today’s been kind of the exception. But lately, his _gifts_ have been arriving with irritating regularity. Always addressed to Shannon.

At first, I suspected Frankie of deliberately trying to annoy me, and lying in wait to see if I could be baited into making a false move. Since then, however, I’ve decided to force myself to live with the situation, because realistically, until Sacramento comes through with some gasoline ration coupons or a propane truck of their own, truthfully, I don’t have much choice in the matter. I suppose it’s possible Captain Courageous was attempting to appeal to me by courting Shannon’s affections first. On the other hand, if he thinks he’s going to drive a wedge between me and my brother over a few cartons of cigarettes, he’s got another thing coming.

More to the point, why the hell was he suddenly sitting here in front of me today, paying court and sipping tea?

Best guess, either he was here because of something Bobby told him about our increaing desperation, or maybe it was due to the almost magical reappearance of our tour bus.

I mean, surely, at the very least Grayson had to be curious about where we’d been keeping the great white leviathan hidden all this time. And why. Unless, of course, he already knew.

And if he already knew, and never came poking around or said anything about it, was that because he’d decided to wait and watch us? Wait, and wonder… because… why? Ah, well, because of what else he knew -- or suspected he knew -- about all the things that had been secreted away up on Tom Watson’s farm? Like drugs. And guns.

And a whole freaking harem of boys, boys, boys.

Perhaps he thought he was sitting in the presence of the new, gay David Koresh? Why yes, dear Captain Grayson, welcome to my universe. Let me introduce you to my cult following. No, I’d have bet the last of my hard-earned US currency to his cold, brass NATO rounds my freakishness was the least of his concerns.

Frank let his free hand gesture vaguely at his surroundings and rolled his eyes upward towards the torn ceiling overhead. "This wasn’t here last time."

The bus. Bingo. Knew that was coming. But then, suddenly, I found myself feeling uncomfortable. Not exactly on the defensive, not yet at any rate, but still…  
  
"No. Our driver made arrangements to park it somewhere off the property. Some place where it would be a little more protected," I confessed, figuring, what the hell. It wasn’t much of an admission. That much Frank must have deduced for himself, and it wasn’t a lie.

"Well, he had every right to be concerned those first few days."

No shit. "He took it up the road about a half mile from here," I offered. "To a farm called Foxfire." I wondered how hard I could push for an exchange of information, like I had about the Westfalls, before I hung myself with all the rope our good Captain was willing to give me.

"Tom Watson’s old place." It was a statement, not a question.

Okay.

"Funny how he and his wife disappeared so quickly," he continued, and paused to drink deeply from his mug.

Meaning what? Meaning he was practically positive that any day now they were going to find the bodies, but hadn’t yet? Please. Maybe he thought we could be tapped for murder, as well as drug dealing and gun running? Pfft. No. But he was obviously fishing for details. He knew perfectly well we fit into the scheme of things somewhere, he just didn’t know precisely how.

"The way I understood it," I wavered slightly, knowing I was on dangerous ground, "he wanted to take her to be with their daughter. Their daughter’s a nurse, and Tom’s wife had a health condition."

"Grace?" Frank said, filling in a blank. So that was her name. I never knew it. "She was a diabetic," he continued.

Huh, so he was already aware of that? It appeared our dear Franklin knew a lot about what went on in his territory. Maybe too much. I was no longer sure I wanted to pursue this conversation. "So, you worked out an arrangement?" he persisted.

Except that here was a point I was quite anxious to make. "Yes. We traded him insulin for the use of his barn." The very next morning after the Crisis, in fact. Exactly twenty-seven days ago. It was a fair deal. A kind of verbal contract, actually. I held my breath and waited.

"Insulin," he repeated very quietly.

Yeah. Go for it, you bastard.

"It’s fortunate you had some on hand that you could spare," he murmured insinuatingly.

Why was I even still singing and dancing for this over-promoted grunt?

"One of the girls with our, um… _Echelon_ ," -- and I’m guessing our abuse of that term must have amused him no end -- "Evie, was a diabetic." Don’t ask me why I felt a twinge of conscience for feeding him that misleading detail. It wasn’t a lie, just the very convenient staging of a bit of truth.

"And how is… Evie… doing?" he inquired smoothly. It amazed me how he managed to keep sounding so sincere.

"We were able to get her to Sacramento, eventually, so she’s okay." I hope.

For some reason, the mention of Evie suddenly had me looking down at Tomo. I leaned over and wrapped his fingers around his untouched mug of tea, guiding it towards his mouth. "Hot," I told him, so he would know what to expect. He tilted his head down over the rim and touched his upper lip tentatively to the warm liquid, then blew bubbles across the surface. And grinned at me, teasing.

I smiled back at him. I couldn’t help myself. Before I could straighten up in my chair, though, Frank spoke again.

"What happened to him?" he asked. Through the narrow swath of short hair along the top of Tomo’s scalp, the ragged, pink path of his scar remained painfully obvious. Frank had kept his voice carefully neutral, but had still somehow managed to make me feel like I’d been struck with a blunt instrument.

"Well," I bit out, "that’s a good question nobody seems able to answer."

Instantly, my voice was so tight I didn’t even sound like myself, and the effort involved in saying just those few words left me close to choking. It was an unseemly and unintentionally confessional outburst in the middle of what had been our otherwise impersonal discussion, and I ended up fervently wishing I could have been a lot less emotional. Not only because I’d embarrassed myself, but because now Frank was staring at me warily, alert and confused.

We paused, all of us, testing our way through the uncomfortable silence that followed. Eventually, in the background, I heard Shannon make a little cough. I’d almost forgotten he was there. Even so, it was another few moments before he finally began to speak. I’m not sure why he hesitated. To deliberate with himself about going into the details? Or maybe for dramatic effect? Like I’d created this poignant scene somehow intentionally and he felt compelled to extend it?

"We were raided one night by a gang of highway pirates," he began, "not too long after we first got here. The motel manager got through to 911 in Sacramento, and…" This was going to be the abridged version. I could hear Shannon struggling with the roughness in his own throat. "They, ah, they said they’d send the National Guard," he finished, drawing out the last part like it was the punch line of a joke.

I would have bet that normally Frank is as good as the best at covering up his reactions to news, but this time I thought I caught a flinch. In fact, I’m sure of it, though god only knows why, or what for. I honestly don’t know what the fuck to think he was reacting to, because that was the exact moment Tomo decided to crawl over and lay his head in my lap. He wedged himself determinedly between my knees and reached up to put his arms around my waist, burrowning his hands between my back and the chair, then settled his head next to my hip with a sigh. And peered back over his own shoulder at Frank, silently.

So, it’s fair to say that when I really needed to be thinking most clearly, I probably wasn’t.

After averting his eyes for a moment, Captain Frank leveled his gaze at me steadily and said, "I’m sorry. To the best of my knowledge we never got that dispatch."

Here’s my honest conclusion. I don’t think Frank was trying to avoid taking responsibility. On the contrary. I think he felt very responsible. I checked his expression; the minute movements of his hands. Nothing about his demeanor set off my ever-attentive bullshit detector. The only thing I sensed his eyes were hiding from me was the unflinching self-assessment that every man of conscience subjects himself to in the aftermath of failure.

But then, maybe I was projecting. Maybe I was too tired of feeling alone with my burden.

So, I sized up his simple apology as best I could -- for what it was worth -- and let it go. Done was done.

And there’s nothing any of us can do about it now that will change the situation.  
  
  
\----------

028/00

Gamma

We could smell it before we could see it.

The sickly sweet odor of death drifting towards us on the afternoon breeze. In my own mind, I was imagining we were about to come upon an abandoned farm and dead livestock. I’d have bet that was what we were all thinking. Next to me in our Range Rover’s passenger seat, Cody shifted restlessly and stared out the side window.

Besides the Rover, we’d brought along only one other support vehicle. I’d decided to forego the equipment truck, not that its extra cargo capacity wouldn’t have been welcome, but strictly because the damn thing wasn’t very maneuverable. Today we were headed into terra incognito, and you never know when you might need to make a quick escape.

Over the last week, a number of roadblocks that had formerly closed off various minor routes in the area had finally been taken down, the exceptions being certain thoroughfares and highways leading north. However, a private access road we’d accidentally discovered while exploring the property up at the farm gave us a secret way around that. This was the first opportunity we’d had to capitalize on it.

While most of us were glad to see at least a partial end to our virtual imprisonment here in the county, there was one interesting and possibly disturbing detail that had come to our attention as a consequence of having greater freedom of movement.

Ever since the Army Corps of Engineers had arrived, we’d been hearing rumors about the occasional sighting of a few Army "regulars" patrolling around as well. And just about the time we were ready to write those stories off as products of social anxiety plus wishful thinking, they proved to be true.

Suddenly, about five days ago, without explanation, the state route 108 roadblock went from being an inert cordon of semi-truck trailers to a manned concrete barricade. Jared wanted to go check it out and have a look for himself, so he borrowed Sarah’s Mazda and came around shaking the keys at me.

"Let’s go."

The first, startled words out of my mouth were, "What about Tomo?"

"We’ll take him with us."

Jared has this thing about not "over protecting" Tomo. He’s very good with him in general, but… so, yeah, I won’t even go into the discussion I had with Jay over that. Let’s just say the whole ordeal ended with me going, "Fine," and Tomo in the backseat.

We went alone. Be assured, the location I’m talking about is very secure, on a well populated road not more than two miles from the center of town. It took us maybe a little over five minutes to find them and, yep, there they were alright. I didn’t catch their division, it seemed improvident to stare. But overnight, a twenty-four hour watch had been established along a small, meandering secondary transportation byway for no apparent reason.

And someone had brought in non-Guard related troops to do it.

So, for a couple of days now, Jared and I have been driving ourselves crazy trying to guess what the fuck this bizarre scenario could possibly mean.

We never even got out of the car, so Tomo did just fine. Jared and I, though, did not do so well. Before we left the Swallows, Sarah had given Tomo a lollipop from her kids’ special treat jar which she keeps on her kitchen counter (and don’t think he doesn’t know it’s there.) Anyway, none of that would have been a problem, but when Jared hit the brakes abruptly at the crossroads, then started speeding down the narrow strip of 108 highway, I wanted to take it away from him.

"Oh, let him have it. You brush his teeth don’t you?" Jared asked me.

"He brushes his own teeth. That’s besides the point. If you stop suddenly he could choke on the stick." Okay, I do know how insane that must have sounded, but when I start getting anxious about Tomo, I go a little nuts sometime. Yeah, and guess what. Excuse me, but not even sorry.

"Oh, come on," Jared smirked, modulating his voice till it was barely more that a low, grating undertone. "I bet he’s had much bigger things down his throat and you never worried about him choking."

" _What the hell is that supposed to mean??!!_ "

Jared kept his eyes glued to the windshield and didn’t answer me. You know what? Forget it. I didn’t want to pursue it then, and I don’t want to think about it now.

Yeah, I’m done writing about that. Besides, Jared’s been acting like the whole conversation never even happened, and maybe it didn’t. Maybe it’s just the way I heard him.

Okay. Cody and I were still in the Rover. Suddenly, he sat up straighter in the seat beside me. The sickening smell had gotten stronger, and up ahead in the distance we could see another roadblock looming. This one looked like it was composed almost entirely of debris. Ray, in his truck behind us, flashed his headlights in my rearview mirror meaning he wanted to talk. I braked to a stop, idling the engine while he jogged up to my open driver side window.

He leaned in a bit and muttered close to my ear. "That’s a small town up ahead."

Will and Mike -- that's Mike, Shannon’s drum tech -- craned forward from the back seat trying to hear us. Ray was right. It was one of those numerous, tiny local villages you can find all around here that’s barely large enough to qualify for its own traffic light in the center square. And not, as I had supposed, an abandoned farm.

I nodded. "What do you think?"

"Well," Ray responded, "I think I don’t know what to think until someone investigates."

"Carefully," Cody added.

So, we were all agreed. We couldn’t simply turn back. If there was an imminent threat, we needed to make an assessment of it, and report back to Jared. Logan was shifting impatiently behind Ray’s shoulder, screwing up his face at the noxious odor and stuffing his hands in his pockets nervously. Here was precisely the part I didn’t like about going forward. The boys.

We carry guns with us these days, but never openly. And I’ve told everyone repeatedly they are not to be produced, or used, except on the team leader’s explicit order. I say that over and over again to every away mission we’ve sent out. Fortunately, no team's discipline on the matter has ever been put to the test.

I was aware that today might be the day, though.

We pulled ahead slowly, nearly up to the barricade. It was a massive tangle of old furniture, fencing, barbed wire, and brush. And practically anything else you can imagine thrown in for good measure. Ray and I were the only ones carrying weapons. From where we stood after exiting our vehicles, the smell of decay was stifling, although at first we didn’t see any bodies. Then, as we looked more closely for details, a good distance down the main street, Ray pointed out what seemed to be two. Bloated almost beyond recognition. Much as I disliked the idea, I wondered aloud if Cody and I shouldn’t go in for a better view of the situation.

"No." Cody was blunt. And fearful, but not in the sense that he was irrationally afraid. More like he had deep personal knowledge and kept a checklist of situations where fear and a high degree of caution were appropriate responses.

"Why?" I asked. "What are you thinking? Typhoid? Cholera?" ... _Anthrax? Small pox?…_ "Something contagious?"

Logan came stumbling along behind us dragging our backpack of tactical equipment. After fumbling under the flap and searching around inside, Ray handed Cody a pair of binoculars. Without hesitation, he raised them to his eyes and fastened them on the grisly scene. "Oh, yeah," he said unhelpfully. "They’re dead alright."

‘How long? Can you guess?"

"More than a few days. Not more than a week."

I saw that Ray had wandered off a short distance and was dragging the toe of his boot through the weeds and dirt. I watched him as he bent down slowly to retrieve something that had caught his attention. Beside me, Logan suddenly hunched over and began to retch.

"Strange thing is," Cody continued squinting through the lenses, "both of them seem to have fallen facing in this direction. The way they’re lying, with their heads and torsos pointed this way, towards us and out of town." He lowered the binoculars. "I’m just guessing, but…"

Ray approached us, then, and held out his closed fist to me. When I opened my palm underneath it, he dropped two brass cartridge casings into my hand. Rimless, bottleneck, I fervently wished I’d paid more attention to the differences between military and other commonly available types of civilian rifle ammunition when I’d had the chance. Maybe Jared would remember, but I’d reached the limits of my knowledge.

Cody peered gravely at Ray’s wordless offering. "…I’m guessing," he began again softly, "but I don’t think those poor people died of anything contagious. Except maybe somebody else’s fear."

\-- stop --


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Four "Hunters and Gatherers"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* More politics as private game and public spectacle.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.

\--------- * --------- * ---------  
"I thought I could  
organize freedom --  
  
how American of me."  
\--------- * --------- * ---------

　

028/00

Alpha

American History 101: At the end of the Revolutionary War, the phenomenally popular commander-in-chief of the Continental Army, General George Washington, did a remarkable and very unexpected thing. Instead of cashing in on his prodigious military power to declare himself emperor of the western world, Washington decided to follow the example of another famous general, a Roman named Cincinnatus, and humbly resigned his commission.

No one, it was said, was more astounded by this turn of events than King George.

He did it despite the fact that back in Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love, a sizeable contingent of disgruntled former Continental Army officers and foot soldiers had turned up to threaten the congress and vocalize their recommendation that Washington seize the kingship for himself. Oh, and then, as a second measure, they wanted him to see to it that every last man and boy of them promptly received all his way-overdue back pay. In response, Washington made an appearance just long enough to read the renegades his colonial version of the royal riot act for the disgrace of betraying their common democratic principles, and perverting their loyalties. What, in the name of the Almighty, had they just fought a fucking war over, pray tell? He then retired to his plantation at Mt. Vernon, no doubt to sulk in his ‘tent’ like another great Alexander, with his republican sense of enlightenment virtues thoroughly ruffled.

Why was I thinking about any of this? Well, a couple of reasons.

Years ago, Washington had come to my attention as a prime example of an underdog with formidable leadership skills, a victor in a war against incredible odds. That, plus, he had the virtue of being a Mason. I mean, if you’re going to fashion a future for yourself as a cult leader in a war of mainstream attrition, steal from the best. But right now, it was other more complex issues surrounding his life that held my attention.

For one thing, if you’ve ever had any social intercourse with a nearly starving, barefoot infantry in your life, it’s hard to imagine being so cavalier about the Continental soldiers’ plight. Not to mention the political dangers involved in ignoring their interest. After all, most of those guys were probably headed home to threadbare, war-weary households and hungry children, bringing little more to show for their trouble than muskets with an awful lot of mileage on them. At this point in my personal experience, I’m a tad more sympathetic to their side of the story than I was, say, even a month ago. Because these days, my image of Washington at Mt. Vernon, sitting so earnestly, as he put it "under my own Vine and my own Fig-tree," is tempered by the awareness that both of those ironic, iconic symbols of simple, rural life were more than likely being tended to by the general’s own slaves. Washington himself must have wanted for very little.

Still, tempted by Fate with the lure of nearly limitless power, I gotta admire his otherwise stiff adherence to his personal vision of a free and democratic future.

One of the other reasons for my mental digression was a trifle more obscure to me at the time. But, I knew perfectly well it had something to do with me sitting around in the immediate aftermath of my homey little visit with the charming Captain Grayson, and finding myself staring at the back of my brother’s head, wondering if anything at all useful went on in there any more besides survival instincts run amok.

And lastly, there was one other matter recently put before me by the Tribe: a petition for permission to hold a Fourth of July celebration, old calendar American Independence Day. Hot dogs and firecrackers. It was hard to believe it was only a week away. Hard to remember, too, with how much everything has changed. Saying "yes" would mean easing up on the food rationing a bit. Maybe a bit more than we could afford. Plus, there was all the time and energy they would be focusing on preparations to be considered. Activities that would divert them from our other essential endeavors. Like, making it through today and the next day, and every other day yet to come.

Up to that moment, it had been my intention to say "no" in keeping with my firm belief that it was imperative I get them all thinking more about what was going to happen _next_ , and less about the way things used to be, but now I was reconsidering the matter. Suddenly, I had a much clearer understanding of how nearly impossible it was going to be to start life over as if from zero. And the terrifying truth about the new future I had been in such a rush to invent was that, here, in my own little corner of purgatory, I was in grave danger of becoming Braeburn County’s preeminent post-historical warlord.

Which, for the moment, concludes my first apocryphal Discourse on the Nature of Power. Actually, it's probably my second. The first was about leadership and women. A short treatise on The Power of Love and War. Keep your women close, but your generals closer.

Anyway, that’s what I was brooding about when I heard the sound of vehicles pulling into our parking lot again. From the "woot!"s of excitement that greeted them, I knew it was Matt and Cody, already back from their foraging expedition earlier than expected. On the one hand, I reasoned, that could mean they found something good.

Or, on the other hand -- perhaps not.  
  
  
\---------

028/00

Gamma

As anyone might imagine, right after we stumbled on that mysterious hamlet of dead people just a few miles off the county road, we made a beeline straight for home.

And as usual, when we pulled up in front, the Tribe poured out to greet us. They hesitated, though, as Cody and I climbed out of the Rover’s front seat, I guess we both looked pretty grim. From the corner of my eye, I saw him wave off the guys who’d been hustling towards us from the Guardhouse thinking to help us unload. Forget it. We didn’t have a damn thing to show for our day’s work except our haunted expressions. I watched everybody’s initial disappointment over that begin to fade as reality set in. There was a problem; something serious enough to send us back to the compound empty-handed.

I didn’t even realize I was still carrying my rifle until I saw Jared and Tomo standing on the walkway observing my approach. In spite of the fact that he never seems to be looking at anything in particular, Tomo suddenly shrank behind Jared and scurried back into the building, so I knew he’d seen me with my gun. Off to the left, a couple of nervous moms called their children out of my way as I moved across the parking lot. I suppose to them I was one hell of a sight. Immediately, I began feeling a little silly since Rambo fantasies are not part of my internal world. My rifle hung heavily and awkwardly from my hand.

But then, there was Ray, striding along right beside me with his gun barrel pointed to the sky, checking his safety. Without a word, the Tribe came from all around the compound and fell in behind us, heading for the Guardhouse. Though we may have returned without loot, we’d obviously brought back news. Our nervous silence was broken only by the sound of our booted footfalls.

"Find yourselves some excitement?" Jared murmured privately when I got close enough to hear him.

"Party was over before we got there," I replied. "That’s the good news. Don’t look for any more."

"Aw, I’m sorry. If you’d stayed home, you could have come to mine," he responded cryptically. I slid a questioning look in his direction, but he shook his head. Whatever he meant to tell me, it would have to wait till later.

Then, he turned and barked a short order at everyone about convening a council.

I stepped into the Guardhouse in time to see Tomo slip behind the back of a large armchair. Shannon was collecting his markers and notebooks off the floor for him, and repeating over and over again that everything was okay.  
  
The southern guardhouse consists of a two-room motel suite we’d refurnished with tables and various other working surfaces, a couple of couches, and an assortment of chairs. The single closet in the far corner had been converted into a gun cabinet, and that’s where Ray and I promptly stowed away our weapons and tactical equipment. No sooner were the rifles out of sight, than Tomo toddled over and began clutching at me with the sort of unaffected familiarity that spoke volumes about his proprietary feelings.

I hugged him back and mumbled something like, "How ya’ doin’ buddy?" then watched as Jared averted his eyes so quickly you might have thought he’d caught us naked together.

Meanwhile, the rest of the guys on the council had pulled a pair of couches up around a low coffee table, and then added a couple chairs to the circle. Jared took his rightful place at the head of our assembly. I noticed Shannon settling himself next to Cody on the end of a couch, squeezing himself into the corner that was farthest from his brother. That was odd. Then, he pulled a fresh, unopened pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and silently offered them around. A few of the other smokers gratefully lit up with him. Geez, I was surprised Jared didn’t say anything, because normally he wouldn’t even sit in a smoke-filled room out of concern for his health and his voice. But today he was either ignoring it, or he just didn’t care anymore. I took my customary place on his left.

Without waiting for an invitation, I started right off reciting the details of our mission as succinctly as I could with Ray and Cody adding their comments here and there. Logan was sitting next to Ray, still looking a little pale. He’s not actually a voting member of the council, but when Ray had offered the opinion that he should go lay down, that his day had already been full enough, Logan had bristled at the suggestion feeling he’d earned the right to be present with the rest of his team. Green as he is, there’s some steel in that kid.

Maybe not surprisingly, we got the whole tale told without interruptions. Truthfully, I don’t think anybody knew what to say. Ray dropped his cartridge specimens on the coffee table beside Shannon’s pack of cigarettes and, quietly, Jared leaned over to finger one of them delicately.

Finally, he broke the spell of silence by asking, "Do we have anything like this down in the vault?"

"Remington? Oh, yeah," Ray answered. "We got plenty."

"Fuck… he probably does think we’re murderers," Jared muttered to himself, and started making a low sound in his throat that I eventually realized was supposed to be laughter. "Captain Grayson knows about the guns," he stated without further explanation.

The room erupted around us. "No way!" "Jared, we’ve been too careful!"

Patiently, Jared shook his head and waved his hands for silence. "It wasn’t because of any of you. It was because of Tom Watson, before we even got here. Probably the Feds and the ATF were already watching him, wondering what the hell was going on." Yeah, obviously Tom was no ordinary gun collector. "Then we showed up." He turned to look me in the eye, "And, mysteriously, Tom and his wife disappeared."

Okay. That was a pretty ugly scenario if you followed it to its most extreme conclusion.

"Just to bring you up to speed, I had a surprise visitor today," he continued. "Frank stopped by to pay a social call. And now," he added with a corrosive smile, "you’re telling me you found a whole community of dead people just a few miles beyond the route 108 roadblock. Less than fifteen minutes from our own private access road up at the farm. Kinda puts a whole new spin on things, doesn’t it?"

I’d barely had time to process the new information when Ray started speaking again.

"Look," he said carefully. "We don’t actually know what happened out there, highway pirates or what, but it might just as well a’ been Grayson who did the job himself."

Jared shook his head and poked at the telltale cartridges. "No, his men would have been firing NATO rounds," he pointed out.

"Not necessarily," Ray responded. "Not if there’s a shortage and they can’t get supplied. Or… look, these Remington two-two-threes are the common civilian sporting equivalent of your military ammo. Not the full metal jacket military issue, and not as much kick, but, well, it’ll definitely get the job done. And think about it. What if they deliberately wanted to use civilian ammo?" He paused a moment to see how that thought would settle on us.

"And then," I asked, thinking out loud, turning the matter over in my own mind, "you have to wonder… why do you suppose those army regulars showed up here all of a sudden?"  
  
"Somebody’s got them watching Grayson?" Eric offered excitedly. "That’s why they’re manning the roadblock. They already know all about his death squads."

" _Jesus_ Christ…" Shannon was laughing under his breath.

"‘Death squads’ is a little strong, don’t you think?" Jared smiled crookedly. However, one glance at the looks on the rest of the faces surrounding us suggested maybe not. "Okay, Matt’s raised an interesting question, but let’s not get crazy."

Still, the two issues were related, I was sure of it. The discussion continued, lurching on and on around me in disjointed fits and starts. I’d stopped listening to the muddle of their voices all trying to speak over one another. My own thoughts about Grayson were troubling, but… I felt like we were missing something.

All this time, I’d completely lost track of Tomo, but now I noticed him again, creeping stealthily along the wall right behind our chairs. At first I couldn’t figure out what he was trying to sneak up on, undetected, but then I saw his quarry resting on an end table in the far corner. Jared’s Blackberry.

It was a little frightening how easily Jared had given up his former addiction. I’d seriously expected withdrawal symptoms, but one day he simply laid it down and literally forgot about it. Almost as quickly as the rest of us had been unwillingly severed from everything else in our collective past. But that’s Jared. Once he’s made up his mind something’s over and done with, even an old life, it’s finished. And it's not like we had a choice…

So now the Blackberry is Tomo’s to play with. He must have some memory of Jared’s obsessive devotion to the object, though, because he always approaches it with a certain sense of awe. Not to mention the obviously unrepentant pleasure of a bad boy who thinks he’s getting into something he shouldn’t.

By now, Jared was trying to call the meeting back to order. It was a bit of an anticlimax when he reminded us of the other pressing matter that still had to be dealt with. Early that morning, we’d gone off with a sizeable shopping list of supplies we needed to keep the community running, and so far, none of those needs had been met.

"Ray," he said. "I want you to organize another team and go out again. Try to stick to places you know are fairly secure. I realize that reduces your options, but do your best. Cody, um, some of the local villagers were here earlier inquiring after you…" With the scarce fuel situation and the closest medical facility over an hour’s drive away, Cody has become the natives’ honorary medicine man.

"Logan?" Jared continued fluidly. "Maybe you can give Cody a hand?" Yes, thank you. That inspired suggestion would keep the kid here, and safe. And would also, take care of Ray’s most pressing concern and allow him to concentrate on his job. I was kinda surprised Jared had even noticed what was going on there between them, but then again, he’s actually pretty good at the ‘people’ thing when he wants to be.

"Matt, I think you and I need to talk a little more." He continued ticking off the items on his mental list. "Who’s taking the point this evening?" That’s Jared’s way of saying guard duty, patroling our perimeter. Or scouting out a situation, basically anytime you took the leadership role in defense. A rumble of voices answered him. "Have somebody scrounge up something for you guys to eat before they try to feed everyone else." A solid meal would help keep their energy up, so they’d stay alert.

One by one, everybody all got to their feet and headed off to their assigned tasks. Ray called out a handful of names, assembling his team while he went to retrieve the weapons. He handed an M16 rifle to Mike, who was going along again. Before any of this happened, all I ever knew about Mike was that he was Shannon’s drum tech, and a friend. Lucky for us, it turned out he had a gift for resourcefulness that extended beyond toms and hi-hats.

The last one out of his seat was Shannon, rising slowly, getting ready to leave with the rest of the men.

" _Hey_."

The sound of his brother’s voice stopped him in mid-stride. With a flip of his wrist, Jared tossed Shannon’s forgotten pack of cigarettes after him.

"Thanks," Shannon mumbled, snapping them out of the air with a one-handed catch and trying to mask a strangely guilty expression. I heard the dull sound of the door closing behind Jack and the others. Then, silence. Tomo took a soundless step towards me, and hesitated. Suddenly, it was just the four of us, alone. I’d say just like the old days, but…

"Look," Jared began tightly, glaring at his brother, "I don’t know what kind of footsy you’ve been playing with Frank Grayson…"

Wait. What??? Go back. I must have missed something.

"…but, I’ve been waiting all this time to hear about it. Sooner, or later."

A tense silence began filling up every spare inch of space in the room. What the fuck was Jared talking about?

"Yeah? Well, I don’t see why," Shannon growled testily. "I had everything under control."

" _Why???…Because_ …" Jared’s sharp tone jabbed icily at the thick air between them. "because Frank was expecting it." I could hear him fighting to keep his voice level, like he was struggling with an actual, physical pain. "In fact, he was depending on it. He was assuming I knew. I should have been able to depend on it, too."

Tension seethed all around us. Shannon’s eyes traced the distance from where he was standing to the doorframe at least twice before he spoke again.

"Sorry," he grumbled, sounding anything but.

The chair I was sitting in was slowly becoming unbearably uncomfortable. I desperately wanted to shift positions and yet at the same time I didn’t want to move a muscle. Not so much as a hair on my head. Not even to breathe. Why was I even still sitting here? Why was I being allowed to witness this?

From where he’d come to kneel by my feet, inexplicably, Tomo picked precisely that moment to begin pulling at me for attention. I looked down at the top of his bowed head, and the ever-present scar of his slowly healing injury. "What?" I whispered. Urgently, he was trying to force Jared’s old Blackberry into my hands.

"Not now," I hissed, trying to shush him.

"Let’s not do this to each other again," Jared said flatly.

"Fine," Shannon replied, and then left, grabbing abruptly at the door handle without even looking back.

Tomo huffed at me in what sounded like disgust.

For a moment, Jared simply stared into space. I wasn’t sure if he was attempting to collect himself, or had completely forgotten I was still sitting there.

"I’m sorry," he said at last, quietly, and very very politely. "What were we saying?"

After that, he and I talked for a while about exactly what had transpired during his meeting with Grayson, which helped me to fill in some of the blanks about what had just gone down.

Some. But, not all of them.  
  
  
\---------

030/00

Beta

I got out one of my old cameras the other day and started working with it again. Partly because I still can. As long as the power stays on for the computers, I can keep right on documenting the slow downward spiral of our demise. Or, our gradual triumph over adversity, whichever comes first.

It’s a digital. I have more than one, but this is the one I like best. There’s no use for a 35mm any longer. You can’t find the film these days, and anyway, the idea of developing film is way beyond the realm of possibility, so. Everything’s on the laptop.

Which is perfectly fine. And, really, sort of fitting.

Matt offered to try to find me some photo stock and ink cartridges for the printer. That way, I could print out hard copies of the images. But I said, you know what? Someday somebody will just use it all for tinder. So, I told him thanks, but not to bother.

Of course, what that means is, when the lights finally go out for good, that’ll be the end. They’ll all be gone forever. There’s a word for that. Ephemeral.

Considering what kind of little art project this is, I think that sounds about right.  
  
  
\---------

031/00

Alpha

Tomo is playing in the dirt out by the motel’s front garden where the women have been tending herbs and vegetables. Once, that space was occupied by ornamental shrubs. Frankly, I think it’s too close to the building for good sun. And now that they have it all replanted, Shannon has decided to worry about the possibility of chemical build-up in the soil from decades of rainwater that would have run off around the foundation, year after year. But how much does that matter, really? I mean, look at us. Let them go, I tell him, it helps them to feel useful and it’s something to keep them busy.

I say Tomo is ‘playing’ because you can’t honestly be sure how much he genuinely understands about what they're showing him to do. He walks around clutching his little trowel, bending over here and there to shovel some dirt and examine a few stones. He’s the picture of innocent efficiency, frowning at the ground intensely and wearing a look of deep concentration on his face.

Shannon glances up when I startle him with my brittle laughter and point out this quaint, pastoral scene to him. A schizoid, Rockwellesque moment from our Post-Cataclysmic Period. He grabs his camera, which has suddenly become an integral part of our lives again, and comes to stand at my shoulder by the Guardhouse window. Quietly, he regards Tomo’s pensive expression for a moment, then suggests, "Maybe somebody should take him to the bathroom."

He’s joking, I think, but I answer him smoothly.

"It’s your turn."

Joke, or not, Shannon dutifully goes out to get Tomo.

Later, when Matt has returned with the rest of the Gatherers, he brings me an offering -- granola, tightly sealed in a large kitchen canister. It’s still fresh and crunchy sweet, and for the moment I’m inexpressibly delighted with him. Rare finds like this are becoming harder and harder to come by all the time. He must have really worked for it. When I look over at him, he seems pleased to see me smile, but I can tell from his expression he wants something from me in exchange. This is just his generous opening move in the latest round of a subtle power game we’ve begun playing recently. Cautiously, he tries to take up the subject of bonding ceremonies with me again, but I still don’t want to hear it.

"That’s hardly the sort of thing that’s most important now," I tell him, implying it’s a waste of my talents. And energy. If Sacramento doesn’t have time for this bullshit, what makes him think I do?

I know I’m being dismissive, but I’m feeling exasperated. Why the fuck is everyone so fixated on the broken social formulas of the past? Same as ever, Matthew is being patient with my prickliness. Patient, or stubborn depending on how you look at it. He and I are sitting together, perched side by side on the low brick wall that’s attached to the portico in front of the motel office, both keeping an eye on Tomo. With gentle persistence, Matt is still trying to make his point.

"Well, it’s important to them. It’s what they’ve known all their lives."  
  
Yes, yes, I’m sure it is. And then, there’s the complicated matter of what I’ve known all my life, and search as I might, I have found no middle ground. Believe me, it’s not like I haven’t turned my soul inside out looking for one. Therefore, I have no desire to preside over the last bastion of a dying society’s rules on intimate human behavior.

I wouldn’t even begin to know where to start in the attempt to explain any of that, so please, Matt, don’t make me try. There’s so much you must realize by now anyway. Don’t put me in this position.

"Jay," he presses, "it’s how the _normal_ people live." And there’s a touch of sly humor in his tone.

Normal. He says it lightly, but I still wonder if he means what I think I hear him saying. I hope that expansive heart of his has granted me clemency for what I said to him the other day about Tomo. It’s really none of my business.

"There are no normal people anymore," I reply." There’s just who’s left." And we’re it. You and Tomo, Shannon and me.

Though he turns and shares his sad, forgiving smile with me, I can feel his disappointment. After a moment, he shakes his head and sighs.

He’s right about one thing though. They’ll all keep trying to reclaim some sense of order from the past until someone finally points them towards a better vision of the future.

I seriously doubt that person will be me.

Tomo suddenly appears beside us, grimy and disheveled, and triumphantly drops something into Matt’s hand. Earthworms. They twine and twist around each other anxiously, having been unexpectedly exposed to the light and air.

I stare curiously into Matt’s palm. Tomo seems immensely pleased with himself -- these days we don’t even think about asking why, not anymore. His unabashed eagerness to share the delight of his discoveries with us is too endearing. "Thank you," says Matt, without even hinting that the gift might be somehow inappropriate.

"Do you think they’re… pets?" I venture cautiously. "Or… condiments?"

Matt starts laughing, and Tomo settles into the spot right next to him, squirming up as close as he can get.

"In a little while, I think we’ll have to put them back where they came from," Matt says quietly. "But for now, let’s just try to enjoy them." And he wraps his free arm around Tomo to give him an affectionate hug.  
  
  
\---------

031/00

Xi

\-- stop --

A/N: Thanks to MyrJuhl, for providing "Tomo’s" journal of simple line drawings at my request.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Four "Hunters and Gatherers"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* The situation with Frank is becoming much more complex. Jared and Shannon try avoiding a touchy subject as a means to patch things back together. Matt’s life just got more complicated too, and it’s hard to know exactly what to do about it.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.

\--------- * --------- * ---------  
"I thought I could  
organize freedom --  
  
how American of me."  
\--------- * --------- * ---------

 

031/00

Beta

Here’s how the phones work nowadays, when they do.

As of three days ago, we have a single, antique, landline handset in the motel office that for approximately four hours per day is connected to a switchboard in Sacramento. That’s it, the whole deal. And that’s "switchboard" as in live, human operator, if you can imagine.

Great, huh? Except for the fact that you can’t call anywhere directly. And, you can’t call anyplace but Sacramento. So if, for example, you wanted to call Boston, or Houston, or Los Angeles, no matter how badly you want to call, even if you were thinking-hoping-praying there might still be somebody there at the other end to pick up the phone, which is highly doubtful, no can do.

You _will_ , however, be asked _why_ you are calling the party to whom you wish to speak, and you’d better have a good answer ready.

As if there aren’t enough downsides to that, and no, I’m not complaining about having a working phone around the place again, god, no -- I mean, _yea! --_ but, you gotta be a little suspicious about who might be getting a full report on the calls you’ve made, and what sort of inquiries you’ve been making.

So, when Jared decided to call Sacramento and ask to speak to whichever office was in charge of the greater metropolitan area housing authority, it was a calculated risk.

Because it’d be just plain stupid not to worry about the state of your civil rights and liberties when, back at the start of all this, FEMA surfaced just long enough to declare a state of emergency and then disappeared off the face of the planet. Leaving guys like Frank and Jared, and the mysterious Imperial Wizard of Sacramento in charge.

Um, yeah.

Did any of us ever mention in our journals that the governor of California was out of the state the night the Crisis hit? Nobody knows what happened to him. Poof, like everything else. Which logically would have left the lieutenant governor in charge, and theoretically he is, only it seems like nobody’s ever actually seen the guy. Not arriving at his office, or leaving at the end of the day, or checking in with the legislature at the Capitol -- which we hear is practically an abandoned building now. He’s never been spotted near his home. No one’s ever had the chance to talk with him, or meet with him personally, or anything.

Weird, huh?

Let me back up in my story a minute. That first night after Frank’s visit was a tough one for me and Jared. I’d thought about spending it up at the farm; a perfect plan that would have let me avoid my touchy brother for a few more hours, while allowing me to keep an eye on Eric at the same time. Just in case he got any bright ideas about what my temporary absence might mean. But, in the end I didn’t do it. I figured I’d just have to live with this problem I had helped to create, and try not to make any new ones. You know, "you made your bed, now lie in it." Literally.

Okay, this is off on a tangent too, but I’ve got to stop and say it: I don’t mean to sound as if I’m disrespecting Eric, really. I like him. I do. I know, I keep saying that over and over again, like, who am I trying to convince? But, honestly, he’s a good guy who has taken on the incredibly thankless task of trying to keep the situation up at Foxfire under control, and in a lot of other ways, he’s pretty indispensable. I’ll be the first to admit it. Much as I’ve grouched about the bus remodel, here’s what else he’s done. After we tore out all our old bunks, he hauled them away to the farm. Then, anyplace in the house where he could find a few extra square feet of space to divide and utilize, he constructed a bunch of private cubicles for the boys, each with its own bed. And I helped him, willingly. It looks a little, ah, _monastic_ up there now that the work is finished, but all the wood for the framing and the drywall? He scrounged that up by foraging on his own. So, none of the boys has to sleep on the floor anymore.

It was Eric, too, who thought it was important to tell me the day Nate and Logan offered to share a bed together when the sleep space at the house was still tight. Alright, that doesn’t sound entirely innocent, does it, but so what? At the time, I shrugged it off. It could be nothing, but then again, boys will be boys. And after all, I figured, this was virtually the same arrangement that had existed when they were living down at the Swallows. Nate, for one, was certainly girl crazy enough then, remember?

Or, maybe he was just sex crazy, I don’t know. But, you also had to consider the kind of example the rest of us had been setting during our former life as a touring band, which maybe helped set the stage for their decision, too. And now this was the new normal. What am I trying to say, here? Well, that Eric freely admitted he didn’t really know exactly what to think it meant either, except that now sleeping together was their choice for whatever reason. And no matter what, above all, he wanted them to be _safe_. And clearly, his attitude suggested, the kids’ "parents" deserved to be informed.

Meaning me and Jared, apparently.

Although, Jesus Christ, I don’t know why. I mean, Jared’s so entrenched in his "non-interference policy" when it comes to other people's intimate lives... it's like he's got his head so far up his own ass on the subject he can almost see daylight at the other end. Almost, but unfortunately not quite. So maybe that’s why Eric decided to try to talk to me. I keep thinking Eric's practically blind to the bus remodel situation that's right under his nose, but maybe not. And, I know this whole thing is about making sure the boys are treating each other fairly and taking personal responsibility, right? Okay, I get it. But I ask you, to the rest of the world, do Jared and I honestly look like two people who’ve got their own shit together? Because in my humble opinion, recent developments would suggest not.

Sex. Easier done than said sometimes.

And now, of course, is the moment when the universe in its infinite wisdom has seen fit to update my information about Logan’s situation, as in, it's not everything it first appeared to be. So, I guess I’m gonna have to talk to Jared about this after all.

Anyway, I was going to write about Jared calling Sacramento to find out what the rules and regs were concerning squatters’ rights. For sure, there was a subject certain to make the guy on the other end of the wiretap sit up and take notice.

Basically, Jared was told the old laws which had been on the books since nearly forever were still in force. Precisely what he’d been hoping to hear. And the bottom line is pretty simple. If you’ve been occupying an abandoned residence for 30-days or longer with no contact from the owner, you have at least some right to stay there. You can’t be evicted without a hearing. And, furthermore, if there was ever any kind of contractual agreement in place between you and said owner about your occupancy, your legal position is even better.

Normally, I just let my brother deal with all this legalese-type stuff because he’s so good at it, and his opinion about the squatter situation at the farm at this point is fairly optimistic. However, I gotta say, Jared’s interpretation on the status of our rights revolves primarily around the assumption that when Cody traded Tom Watson insulin in exchange for a place to park our tour bus, it represented enough of a "contract" to meet Sacramento’s requirement. Well, I’m not so sure about that considering how the herd of young adult males we’ve currently got stabled up at the farm is such a far cry from that original agreement over stowing a tour bus. Not to mention the fact that the bus never even belonged to us in the first place. And Cody wasn’t technically our employee either -- although you could maybe say he was working as a kind of agent on our behalf. And on top of all that, for Cody’s "contract" to be any good probably also means ignoring the fact that the insulin he negotiated the deal with was, eh-h, stolen. So. Personally, I think it’s a very shaky case.

Whatever. It may never come to that. At least it won’t if I have anything to say about it.

I’m gonna have to finish this later. Got to go. Today, I’m riding with the Gatherers’ as an escort. The women want to go shopping. Which in our present circumstances no longer means simply dropping them off at the mall.

Lock and load.  
  
  


\---------

031/00

Alpha

If, during my visit with Magister Grayson the other day, Shannon could only have bothered to follow the course of our conversation a bit more closely, then perhaps he would have understood better what all the verbal jousting was about. Maybe he could have been somewhat more helpful to me. But these days, most of my brother’s thoughts seem to be consumed with his own abstract, private concerns, and at times he’s completely opaque to me. He can be sitting right in front of me and all I can think about is how much I miss him. I miss the certainty of knowing that Shannon’s always got my back, no matter what. The way it used to be.

In fact, some days the bite of missing him is so fierce, I can’t even begin to find the bottom of that particular hurt and frustration inside myself. Sometimes he’s still here with me like before, body and soul, and other times he’s not, and more often than I care to think about I don’t even know how to reach him any longer. Not with my words, not with my eyes, not from my heart. And for quite a while now, my feelings about him have been drowning in my sense of betrayal.

Here’s a fact: In our brave new world, the underground trade networks aren’t just about obtaining material goods, they’re about your alliances. The Westfalls, for example, only have gasoline because Frank has arranged for it. Turns out, the local rationing of fuel is very strictly regulated under his authority, and not all the gas stations in the county have reopened. That would be point number one.

Point number two is that, whatever else the Westfalls may have in terms of contacts or loyalties that Grayson finds attractive, they also have access to bees and honey. Which is unregulated, and can be used as a form of currency in our still (for the moment) free market, barter-based economy. When their son broke his leg not too long ago, Paulie and Trev did not do the possibly predictable thing. With a nearly unlimited supply of regular unleaded at their disposal, you might have expected them to simply appropriate the necessary gasoline and make the long drive in to Sacramento for medical help, but they didn’t.

A reasonable decision, perhaps, if you consider the consequences. The Westfalls have to make a full accounting to the local authority for every gallon of gas in their receipt. If they can't produce the surrendered ration coupons authorizing every sale of fuel they make, even to themselves, that's a problem. (like "theft" or black marketeering) _But_ , given the emergency, the very act of not choosing to take the gas and the consequences pointed directly to the existence of an _alternative option_. I’m sure it’s pretty difficult not to notice that, somehow, the boy’s broken bone has been skillfully set and their kid is now sporting a very sturdy splint. I’m also guessing that’s gotta make a man like Frank Grayson curious.

So, all the chitchat about sugar or honey for the tea was hardly idle conversation. To find the network and the alliances, it’s like that old adage "follow the money." Or, in this case, the honey.

Once again, it was Sarah who was able to fill me in later about one of the historical background events that's led up to our present situation, in part. Sometime in the past, long before we arrived, the Gabriel Crossing Fire and Rescue consolidated with several other small community rescue services in the county and relocated to a town about ten miles south of us. The idea was to help spread their cost of operation over a wider tax base. And it would have been a fine idea too, if the twenty-four/seven 9-1-1 service hadn’t suddenly gone up in metaphorical smoke that first fateful night of the Crisis. We’re cut off and pretty much on our own here now, because the only route to medical assistance involves making the long, uncertain drive to Sacramento, fifty-six miles and several check points away. And, one of the more drastic results of our first attempt to do that is Tomo seems to be more or less permanently lost in the impenetrable murk of his mysterious head trauma.

So, getting back to Paulie Westfall, naturally she did exactly what everybody else in the village chooses to do these days when faced with a medical crisis. She brought her son to Cody, and then showed her gratitude for his care in terms of jars of honey.

I figured it was safe to assume Frank had a few specimens of the Westfalls’ gratitude stashed somewhere among his own personal assets as well.

Not that I’m thinking for one minute a demi-god like Frank has to worry about his supply in a sugar shortage no matter how driven he is to feed his sweet tooth. No, his interest seems related to the fact that everybody else does. The Westfalls’ honey has become a desirable, unregulated resource and it’s starting to look like Frank, at the very least, would like to follow the details of its dispersal. And I think I can imagine why.

It's because now he has successfully tracked down the existence of another valuable unregulated resource -- medical care. And very likely the repository of a whole lotta stolen prescription drugs. Not to mention the looters who took them. And, quite possibly, the fate of Tom Watson’s arsenal of guns and ammo.

Shannon, unfortunately, missed all that.

To be absolutely specific, though, it was while Shannon, Frank, and I were nestled all nice and cozy on the bus together, sipping tea and keeping our pinky fingers up, that I really started feeling desperate for a little assist from my brother. It was right about the time Jack and the rest of my motley crew began their misguided attempt to play gansta’s with Frankie’s military police. Shannon, I was thinking, please, somebody go call off the fucking dogs. Outside, my guys were all milling around restlessly on the back parking lot with their hackles up, and any minute I was expecting them to start pissing on the bus tires.

Meanwhile, there I was, tediously attempting to entertain the eagle-eyed, inquisitive Captain Grayson, and working very deliberately at signaling der commandant about my _peaceful_ intentions in the county. That is, without making myself look like a total pussy, because unfortunately we have yet to figure out exactly where the hell the Guard fits into all of this.

No, I swear, Frank, we are not an armed enclave here, with links to the gangs in L.A., or the Sacramento black markets. Cross my heart. But, enough about me, my dear Captain Grayson. How about you? What’s your story? Hellooooo-o-o! Shannon, little help here please?

Sadly for me, while all that was happening, my brother just sat there looking like aliens had sucked his brains out his ear and placed him in a state of suspended animation. He was unreachable. Nor had he seen fit to arm me in advance with the pertinent facts about his own dalliances with the new Lord of Braeburn County.

So, by the end of our cordial little interrogation, the only real question that remained was how the good Captain was going to put together the puzzle of information he’d collected on us and our community, and what sort of picture would emerge when he was through. I hadn't quite given in to a sense of despair over that yet, but I was preparing myself for the likelihood it was not going to be a favorable portrait.

Therefore, the next day, it was with a distinct feeling of relief that I realized, somehow, we’d managed to achieve some sort of meeting of the minds after all. One of Col. Franklin Grayson’s -- yes, apparently it was _colonel_ now -- special gifts arrived; IV kits and a case of Lactated Ringer’s with his calling card attached, addressed to Cody.

That was the only negative. He knew it was Cody our bus driver who was filling in as the local healer, a fact I had not shared, which meant he’d undoubtedly gathered the details about Cody’s personal history from some other source. Well, well. What didn’t Frank know that he couldn’t manage to find out, I wondered grimly.

Because, now, obviously he also knew that Shannon had been holding out on both of us. That must have surprised him as much as it did me, almost, after all these years. And I found it kind of interesting how Frank had chosen to deal with our delicate predicament, because along with the IVs, he’d also sent along one other carefully selected token of his good will. Five pounds of Columbian premium whole bean. Addressed to me, for a change.

Then, not long after the material goods had been delivered, two guys in civilian clothes with papers identifying them as part of the Army Corps of Engineers Domestic Services Division, showed up to work on the phones. I won’t pretend I wasn’t surprised. I was practically speechless, and more than a little suspicious, but I’ve had some time to think the matter over.

Four hours a day isn’t a perfect solution to our social isolation, but I think Frank was trying to signal his best intention to never miss another dispatch if we were ever in distress again. At least, as far as he was able. However, at the same time, I’m not deluded about the likelihood that he’s monitoring our calls and watching every move I make.

Right on the heels of the Corps came perhaps the biggest surprise of all. The Mexican aid workers who’d showed up once before to help us through our first contaminated water crisis pulled into our driveway. The very same ones who had hooked us up as a Sacramento protectorate. Wow, I was thinking. If Frank had sent for more aid for us, too, it seemed like our new benefactor was pulling out all the stops. And not all of it in ways that could be traced directly back to his largess very easily, either. That was also the moment when I first realized there were more than just aid workers crawling and stumbling out of the last truck in their dusty convoy. There were kids and at least one weary mom, a pair of teenage boys, and… uh-oh.

"We found them living under a bridge," Elena said as she walked up to me. No, hey, Jared, how’s it going? No, hi, remember me? Just straight to the point. "Thought maybe you could help put a real roof over their heads?" she added, blinking at me hopefully.

Oh sure, what the hell. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses. Before I could even say yes or no, Mikayla darted passed me and stood hovering protectively over the bedraggled refugees like a new era St. Bridget in an over-size Iron Maiden t-shirt.

Hey, wa-a-a-ait a minute. You know, Mikey and Jenna have always been very good to us about doing our laundry without ever being asked. But sometimes, while stretching out those detergent rations and trying to make them last, I think maybe they take a few too many liberties.

I drew a breath, about to announce my official decision when Sarah arrived and immediately gathered the suppliants under her wing. Without hesitation, she ushered our newest additions off to her motel office so she could assign them quarters.

"Thanks," Elena breathed gratefully, not even noticing I had yet to give my consent. "I was planning on bribing you, if necessary," she confessed.

"Really?"

I guess I must have sounded too hopeful, because instantly her eyes locked on mine defensively, as if she suspected I was thinking about sex. When actually, about fifty pounds of government cornmeal would probably have done it for me.

"Yeah," she squinted, suddenly all business. "I have a couple bushel baskets of tomatoes, some five pound cans of surplus peanut butter, and about forty pounds of flour in the back of the truck."

Praise God. Any god, I’m not picky.

"Plus," she added conspiratorially, "I can tell you where the tomatoes came from, and if you can get there, they’ll almost always take on extra field labor in exchange for a share of the produce. Right now, they’ve got spinach and squash, too. Later in the summer there should be sweet corn and soybeans."

It was enough to take my breath away. "Elena," I said, "I could kiss you, and I mean that in the most platonic sense, of course."

"Oh, of course."

When Shannon got back from his shopping trip with the ladies he looked slightly the worse for wear, but he perked up when I showed him all the goodies.

"That’s great," he enthused. Both of us were careful not to bring up the subject of Frank when he spied the coffee. Lately, Shannon and I haven’t had much reason to smile at each other and the look on his face was just too precious to me. I was so afraid of ruining the moment. I was utterly desperate not to.

"We stopped for milk on the way back," he told me shyly. He knows I take my coffee light. "You tried any of this yet?"

"No, not yet." I thought I would wait for you to come home.

His grin got wider and bolder. "Well, what are we waiting for?" he asked, nodding his head in the direction of the diner.

We took off without even telling anybody where we were going or how long we planned to be gone. Just the two of us. Not that we were going very far, but it kinda reminded me of the old days.

\---------

Tonight we collapsed into bed together, exhausted like always, but lighter and happier in some way than we’ve been in long time, and much more relaxed. Perhaps what I should really say is, we fell onto our unkempt mattress on the floor in the back of the bus, bohemian style. That’s a whole lot closer to the truth. Some nights sleeping on the bus is still like camping out in a junkyard, but at the moment all I’m thinking about is, here’s the one thing I’m very grateful for, that he never left our bed. For days now, Shannon has been positioning himself stiffly on his own side of the mattress, hugging the edge, showing me his back, wrapping himself up tightly in his own blanket. Not making a sound, not even snoring. Maybe because he wasn’t really sleeping. Tonight, however, he settles onto his pillow with a deep sigh, facing me.

"When we stopped at the dairy, Stan told me he’s gonna have to cull his herd." This is Shannon’s idea of pillow talk. He’s unburdening himself of his day. His eyes are already closing and his voice rumbles sleepily. I smile at him in the dark even though I know he can’t see me. "He really doesn’t have enough pasture," my brother continues, "and he can’t get hay any longer."

Get this, from my confirmed city boy, who still likes to tease Sarah about milk coming from the grocery store. "Are you suggesting my next career choice should involve dairy farming?" I ask. I can’t resist. I snuggle up closer and starting humming to him softly, and then I sing quietly like you would a child’s lullaby. _"Old MacDonald had a farm…"_

‘No, you ass." He’s snickering, eyes still closed. "He’s gonna slaughter the ones he can’t manage to feed."

"Oh."

"Freezer beef." He yawns. "Matt said he’d go help."

We’re silent for a moment. For a long, long time now I’ve been keeping a promise about not eating meat, and I wonder if, and how much longer, I’ll be able to continue.

Shannon’s giggling again. "Remember when we told some reporter that one time that… god, boring interview… remember when we lied and said Matt had once worked in a slaughter house?"

"Yeah. I do."

"Ironic, huh?"

Ironic, understatement. Like, "Be careful what you wish for…"

So, now I’m wondering, is that how it works? Because, I also remember I once told another interviewer that the truth was you and I were not, in fact, brothers. That you were actually my lover of many years. And you, without blinking, said calmly, "It’s true." The way we did it, though, they all thought we were kidding. A little joke in questionable taste.

Shannon’s breathing evens out quickly. He’s falling asleep.

There is something I want to ask you, brother of mine, but I think for tonight I’ll let it be. Still, here’s the thing. If I could have that interview, that moment, back again to do over, what do you think? Should I, perhaps instead, have just admitted that maybe you were both?

 

\---------

032/00

Gamma

We had another episode of high drama in the family quarters again recently. This time it involved the younger set. By all accounts, it seemed we had a seriously unrepentant dollnapper on the loose.

The missing toy in question was the property of one Lacey McBryant, a seven-year-old female with a passion for justice. Feeling deeply wronged, she knew exactly what needed to be done in order to get satisfaction. In other words, wanting to get her boy pal ‘Roger’ back, she marched herself straight over to the headquarters of the one and only Lord High Commissioner, who solemnly promised he’d empower a Camp Constable to look into the matter immediately.

Gee, thanks, Jared.

I’ll freely admit to the trepidation I felt as I went to question Lacey about her missing doll, thinking to myself, you know how little girls are. Sensitive, vulnerable, prone to tears. Therefore, as gently as possible, I asked her to tell me what Roger looked like.

In a series of precise, emphatic phrases, she gave me his description like a homicide detective detailing a crime scene. I could see her trying to remain hopeful about my innate abilities as an investigator, even as her piercing, skeptical stare was sizing up my suitability for the task. I had the uncomfortable feeling I’d been found wanting in some respect. Someday, if Jared ever has children of his own, I bet they’ll be a lot like Lacey.

From what Lacey told me, I think I would have called Roger an old-fashioned rag doll, just a little updated is all. He was made of cloth with a shape kind of flatter than round, stood about twenty-four inches tall, and was nattily dressed in mostly goth black for some reason. Yeah, I remembered seeing Roger lying around. Boy dolls that aren’t your typical action figures are somewhat rare, so he’d caught my eye at some point. This particular specimen was one of those gizmos that’s all covered in zippers and buttons and snaps and things, with shoes that you can tie and untie to help teach kids how to put on their clothes.

Frankly, Lacey struck me as a little old for a "dress me" type toy, but clearly her sense of personal property rights had been violated. It was more the principle of the thing.

Well, I put all the compound’s parents on the lookout for Wayward Roger, then on an impulse, I went to see Sarah for a quick course in child psychology.

She confirmed that at Lacey’s age right and wrong are pretty black and white. Her oldest son Noah, I noticed, was hanging on our every word, equally scandalized and fascinated by the whole idea of criminal activity among the members of his own age group. Actually, he’s four going on five. A very serious and precocious five. He had all kinds of novel suggestions for punitive measures once the culprit was finally caught. His mother alternately shushed and clucked at him, trying to discourage the idea of gratuitous punishment. I grinned and offered to make him my deputy. Sarah shot me a withering scowl.

"You are not helping," she grouched.

For the next two days -- nothing. Then, I found him. Apparently, Tomo was the one who had taken Roger and hidden him in our room.

The first disturbing thing about that was discovering poor Roger had been stripped of all his clothes, and jammed into the back of the bottom drawer of our dresser. I found his shirt, trousers, and little toy-sized trainers in a different drawer, all neatly organized, and secreted beneath a pile of other clothes. Deprived of his snazzy belts and buckles, his faux leather jacket and his polka dot underwear, I was startled to see that Roger was, um, how do they say it? Anatomically correct. In a stuffed and quilted sort of way.

The other distressing part was that, when I found him, there was a dirty scrap of string snugged tight around his ankles and his little cloth feet with their stitched-seam toes.  
  
And now that I was really looking at him -- I mean, just boydoll Roger, unadorned, and without his customized accessories -- I finally noticed he had a disturbingly familiar looking mop of longish, dark yarn hair, and huge, round, blue crystal button eyes.

Okay well, the truth is I don’t begin to understand why Tomo does half of the things I’ve seen him do. And maybe he doesn’t either, so I’m trying not to read anything particularly troubling or sinister into this.

But seriously, I still can’t help feeling uneasy and a little bit sick about the whole thing.

I went to see Lacey and confessed it was Tomo who took her doll. Then, I asked her how attached she was to Roger, and could we maybe work out a deal? Because, I said, I thought maybe the reason Tomo "borrowed" him in the first place was because he didn’t have any toys of his own. Which for all I know, might be the truth.

She made a quick inventory of me. You know, the kind of sharp-eyed once-over that every cynical female above the age of three will give you whenever she knows instinctively she’s got you by the balls. I’m curious, when and how do they learn that? Rather directly she asked me, in essence, what was my best offer. Without wanting to dwell on it, I finally realized she kind of reminded me of my niece. So, the next day when we went out foraging, I brought her back a Bratz Hair Magic Yasmin -- the one with the special brush and all the fancy hair clips and stuff, and she called it even.

Later that afternoon, though, I also went to talk to Sarah again, this time about Tomo. Because frankly, I didn’t really know what else to do under the circumstances. I mean, given the pertinent details concerning Roger’s "disappearance" and his subsequent recovery, talking to Jared or Shannon about it seemed out of the question. In retrospect, what I was actually able to bring myself to say about the matter, while standing there in Sarah’s living room, doesn’t seem like much. But in every way that was useful, I felt like Sarah understood.

That night I took Roger out of his confinement and dressed him in a tiny, green, size 12 months infant sleeper Sarah had rummaged out of her attic for me. I told Tomo I thought Roger might be a lot happier in bed with us instead of tied up in the back of a dark drawer without any clothes on.

Tomo gazed past me with that absent stare of his that always suggests the lights are out and nobody’s home. But when he climbed into bed, he snuggled Roger in between us before pulling me into a hug, and then settling down to sleep.

And when I woke the next morning, I was relieved to find a pair of wide, blue crystal eyes still peering up at me from a warm, safe place right underneath of Tomo’s chin.

\-- stop --


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Four "Hunters and Gatherers"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* Shannon’s just full of secrets, mostly other people’s. If Jared hasn’t felt pushed to the breaking point before, he’s getting there now. Matt can’t decide which part of his life is more complicated, daytime, or nighttime.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.  
> Warning this chapter: Explicit content

\--------- * --------- * ---------  
"I thought I could  
organize freedom --  
  
how American of me."  
\--------- * --------- * ---------　

033/00

Alpha

"Jared, you awake? I have to talk to you about something. But first you gotta promise to stay calm."

Oh, god.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was assaulting my nostrils. My eyes weren’t even open yet, and I was considering keeping things that way indefinitely. So far this morning, with only two senses working, my day was already headed down hill. Go away.

"What now?" I croaked blearily.

"Here, sit up. Drink this," Shannon coaxed. The clink of coffee mugs close to my ear encouraged me to risk raising one eyelid.

"White and sweet. The way you like it." His eyes glimmered back at mine.

"Thank you. I think," I replied cautiously, crawling out of from under the blankets. "To what do I owe this unexpected courtesy?"

"Ah-h…in a minute. Coffee first." He tried smiling at me.

I don’t always drink coffee in the morning, but this was good. Excellent, in fact. Colonel Grayson certainly knew how to put his best foot forward when he wanted to. And obviously he had all kinds of contacts. The question was, with whom?

"Is this about Frank?" I asked.

"No," my brother coughed uninformatively.

"Well, what then?" Better have a go at it, Shan, while I’m still a little numb.

"Okay," he said, nervously rubbing one of his palms over the leg of his jeans, like it was already getting sweaty. "It’s about… uh, Ray…" He paused.

Ray? We were having a problem with Ray?

"And?" I prompted.

"I think Ray is, uh… Ray is, uh…" Shannon groped for a word.

A horrible sinking feeling suddenly gripped me. Instantly, those few swallows of morning coffee were churning acidly in my stomach. "What, Shannon, what?" I demanded, wondering what the fuck kind of a disaster this latest one was going to turn out to be.

"I think Ray is… _courting_ … Logan…" he mumbled, emphasizing his choice of the word ‘courting’.

There was at least one minute, a full sixty seconds, of static in my brain before I managed to choke out, "You think…???"

Meaning what, exactly, Shannon? You’ve seen or heard something incriminating? Eric tipped you off on the down low? Psychic vibrations are setting off your gaydar? What?

"No, not I think. I know. I know," he amended, holding up his hands placatingly.

"You _know_ ," I repeated, trying to sound nonjudgmental, while admittedly incredulous. "And, how is that?…that… you _know_?" If I may ask.

My brother stared at the floor wordlessly.

"Has one of them talked to you?" I offered. Unfortunately, in a tone that probably came across more like an inquisition than me trying to enrich my supply of useful information.

"Logan."

Logan? Really? Using the English language? A barely comprehensible concept at the best of times, let alone before I’d had any breakfast. And I’m trying to imagine how in the world that conversation went. I mean, first, there would be Logan, suffering from the usual sort of verbal arrest that always seems to afflict him, but especially when he starts getting emotional. And then there would be Shannon, whose communications skills are also known to deteriorate markedly whenever he’s under stress.

_Shannon: So, you’re like… what?_   
_Logan: (*shuffles feet*)_   
_Shannon: Yeah? …whoa…_   
_Logan: (*nods head*)_

I couldn’t help myself, I started to giggle.

Shannon’s face broke into a relieved grin. "Come on," he chided me, like I shouldn’t be making fun.

"No, it’s not that," I said, gasping a little between spasms of laughter. We’d both lived life on the road long enough to know how it goes. Or at least how it did, once upon a time. "It’s just, I mean… Ray?"

"Yeah."

"Eric I could understand…"

"No," said my brother firmly. "Not Eric." Then he shot me a defiant smile. "Ah, just… no."

Yeah, yeah, I know how he feels about Eric. Which is probably at least part of the reason why, after that last remark, I found myself laughing even harder. But, honestly, the thing that seemed the most hilarious to me was what was happening between the two of us, because now our own halting dialog had degenerating into monosyllables. So much about all our lives here seems to remain unspoken.

"Well, so." Shannon cleared his throat. "I talked to Ray." His expression grew more serious.

"You did?" I bit back the remainder of my snickering.

"Yeah, and he wanted me to talk to you. He wants us both to say it’s alright before they, uh, you know."

"I ………… _..??…_ " Consummate the relationship? _Oh. My. God._ I mean, how chivalrous, but seriously. It’s none of my fucking business.

"Well, I don’t know, Dad," I finally rumbled. "What do you think? Is he good enough for our little boy?" I admit, I laid the sarcasm on thick.

"Jared, just…" Shannon was getting exasperated with me. "Will you please just try to go along with things here? We’re, like, one fucking step away from total anarchy in this place, and you…you’re ridiculing the people who are trying to maintain… some sense of… _order_ for themselves." It was a struggle, but he'd finally managed to express what he thought pretty clearly.

"I’m sorry," I said. Suddenly I was, too, when he put it like that. All this time, the only thing I’ve really wanted is to empower people to live their own lives and make their own choices, and not let me or any other person or institution become an obstruction to that process. Basically to stay out of their way. But I guess sometimes, under certain circumstances, people require a sense of validation. It’s a delicate balance.

"You know, it’s not like people haven’t figured out Logan and Nate are a little special to you. Well, to us."

It’s that obvious, huh?

"And besides, I think Ray’s kinda been around the block with this sort of thing before. Maybe. And, um, so he probaby felt it would be, you know, better… to just be right up front about everything. Given the…" Shannon’s hand waved a helpless circle in the air, "…big picture."

I paused, carefully considering everything that gesture of Shannon’s had intended to encompass. And I thought to myself, if I squinted really hard and looked at my brother sort of sideways, perhaps his remark might turn out to be a very uncharacteristically confessional one.

"You’re saying, there’s already enough gossip," I tried cautiously.

"Yeah. So, unless you’re interested in reinventing the tabloid press…"

And enough history, too. "God, no," I said. Wild geese couldn’t drag me back to those days.

All of a sudden, something else dawned on me. "Does Matt know about this?" I asked hesitantly. Oh, lord, I hadn’t even thought of that before.

"Nah, I don’t think so. Why?" Shannon scrunched his brow at me quizzically.

Just wait until he finds out. I’ll never hear the end of it.

 

\---------

033/00

Beta

Jared had just finished showering and was still puttering around in the Guardhouse bathroom, when Matt came back from the diner with Jenna and our breakfast.

"Where’s Tomo?" he asked looking around the room.

"In the bathroom watching Jared shave," I answered, an idea that for some reason didn’t seem to sit well with him.

"Tomo?" Matt called. "You want your breakfast?"

Sometimes I wonder why we keep trying to talk to him. I mean, it’s not as if he’s likely to answer. Meanwhile, without being asked -- just like the good girl she always is -- silently and efficiently, Jenna began setting the table where I was sitting.

"Tomo!" Matt snapped a little louder, and he stuck his head around the half-open door.

"He’s fine." I heard Jared’s voice echo gently. "He’s with me,"

If Matt even heard my brother speaking to him, it was like it didn’t register. "Quit bothering Jared and get out here and eat," he ordered. Now, normally, Matt will do everything in his power to avoid causing Tomo mealtime trauma, because getting food into him is still an ordeal some days. So, his unprecedented display of irritability and authoritarianism was surprising to me.

"Matt, I said he was fine," Jared stated with firm, clear calm.

"Well, his eggs are getting cold," Matt sulked.

"Eggs again, Matthew? No wonder he never eats for you," I teased. "Two words. Pe-e-eanut butter. And jelly." Breakfast of champions. And young boys responsible for getting their even younger brothers to eat something before they leave for school in the morning.

Matt stepped back from the bathroom door. "I didn’t bring any, and that’s more than two words," he informed me petulantly, but I noted the beginnings of a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

"Oh, but, I did," Jenna peeped up shyly, setting down the last of the plates. "…here…" Gingerly, she pushed a mismatched pair of small, covered jars in my direction.

Well, there was a modest victory worth celebrating. I’d cajoled a few words out of Jenna, who practically never, ever utters a single syllable in our presence any longer. "Why, so you did," I breathed out, gazing at her steadily. When I reached over to receive her timid offering, I let my fingers brush lightly against hers. Hey, I may not have Jared’s honeyed drawl or blue-eyed stare, but I manage. My left eye fluttered a quick wink at her, while I tested her receptivity to my smile. "Thanks, baby girl. I’m _eternally_ grateful." Manners. Mom always stressed good manners. "Although, given our current circumstances, I don’t know how long that offer is good for," I added, just trying to be practical. Eternity these days is a relative concept.

Suddenly the room was shockingly quiet. I watched her cheeks blush a deep shade of crimson, and sensed a slight miscalculation. "No problem," she whispered, and bolted for the door like the floor was suddenly too hot to stand on.

Before she’d even reached the parking lot, Matt was laughing out loud at me. "You are such a fuck."

I turned to see Jared framed in the bathroom doorway. "Nice work. You enjoyed that, didn’t you," he observed dryly, nudging Tomo in the direction of the table.

"What?" I shrugged. One of the essentials of my survival strategy for living with these guys involves the necessity of always radiating confidence.

"I can’t believe you think that shit's gonna work for you." Matt hadn’t stopped laughing yet.

"Overall," I informed him, "the record is good." Alright, I exaggerate, but what’s the big deal over a little harmless flirting anyway?

"My brother is the master of unfathomable strategies," Jared agreed a bit sourly, pretending to direct his attention to his plate. Okay, it was time to change the subject.

I slathered two pieces of toasted bread with peanut butter and strawberry preserves, and hastily slapped them together. Then, I held out the finished product in Tomo’s direction. Didn’t have to offer him twice. What am I tellin’ ya? When I’m right, I’m right.

He ate very neatly, although somewhat creatively, while the rest of us downed eggs and warm biscuits. Like any other morning, there were the usual comings and goings. Ray stopped by for coffee at the end of his shift at guard duty. Jack wandered over from the diner to scold me for harassing the female help. When we’d all finished up, we stepped outside into the morning sunlight where I watched my companions, out of habit, warily scanning the main road and our immediate surroundings.

Reflexively, I reached for my cigarettes and lit up without even thinking. From the corner of my eye I caught my brother watching me, and demonstrating an admirable restraint.

"How much free-lancing is Frank doing," he finally asked, very directly.

"I don’t know." I stared right back at him openly, because I wanted him to see I honestly was not trying to evade the question.

On the surface, Jared’s expression seemed pragmatic and serious, but beneath his public face I saw another one that pleaded defenselessly with me. This was my baby brother, utterly disarmed and desperately struggling to keep faith with me in the aftermath of having his heart broken. I’ve seen the look before. He wanted to trust me; he needed to. In my gut, I could feel the twist of his terrible, naked hunger for reassurance and the tug of an all-consuming need to place his unlimited confidence in me again.

"Best guess," he prompted as I watched his eyes grow even wider.

I quickly shook off the familiar, morbid sensation of drowning that I knew was about to become completely overwhelming.

"As far as I can see, Frank always plays by the book, but he’s got a lot goin’ on on the side."

"Such as."

Smoke curled up uneasily from my fingers. "My original contact with him was through Bobby." Yeah, the guy with the coffee. Fine. I confess. "And it was an acquaintance I was glad to make, ‘cause as anybody can see, Bobby’s got a lot of stuff at his cafe that isn’t exactly government rations, and it’s not your typical military mess either. I mean he’s got everything from a diesel powered back-up generator, to cases of soap and toilet paper, to smoked Alaskan salmon, range-fed veal… it’s pretty fucking amazing. There’s even Maine lobster tails in his walk-in freezer. Just in case, ah-h, Frank happens to feel like entertaining."

Obviously, this went way beyond Westfall’s homegrown honey. I tapped the dangling ash off my cigarette.

"But, Bobby doesn’t actually serve any of that stuff," Matt said sort of wistfully.

"No, it’s Frank’s private stash, hidden away from whoever’s at the other end of _his_ leash, I presume. I was allowed to see it, though. Which was a come on, I’m sure."

"And it worked," Jared said emotionlessly.

I decided against responding to that in front of the others. "Bobby gets his compensation, of course. That’s why his place is always open and they’re never without Haagen Daas on the dessert menu. Plus, the Guard all like to come in for a meal on their day off -- happy Guard, happy Colonel of the Guard -- and in addition to a very good meal, sometimes," my voice dropped. This was the part I really did not want to get into, "they can get a little something extra."

My brother’s face was a study in frozen non-reactivity. So, I pushed ahead. "The thing is, Bobby’s got crates and boxes of supplies and fresh food in his backroom, all with labels on them from states everywhere across the country. From that, I’m guessing at least some of the old US of A must still be there, churning out consumer goods just like it always did. Or, at least there are still trucks moving stockpiles from the old warehouses. Only, trade is so strictly regulated it’s a virtual military secret."

I stopped talking and looked up. Jack was staring at me with an unreadable expression, and everyone else was deathly silent. "That’s about as far as I got, except for a couple cartons of complimentary cigarettes." Because that was all I could manage. My brother’s been practically keeping me under house arrest, in case nobody’s noticed.

"What did he want from you?" Jared asked.

"A little conversation. He asked about Ray."

"Ray?"

"Probably ‘cause I got some years in the military behind me," Ray offered uncomfortably. "He’d wanna find out all he could about a thing like that if he already knew we had guns and munitions lyin’ around."

I nodded. "And he asked about all the guys and young kids up on the farm. I think he was afraid we were training our own militia up there." _Not_ a harem, Jared.

They all looked stunned, for the second time in as many days. My sense was I should give my audience a breather and let the temporary shock of this newest revelation wear off. Give everybody a chance to let the implications sink in. Suddenly, though, a sharp popping sound interrupted us. My first thought was that it sounded like a firecracker; like someone was testing fireworks for the Fourth of July. But, as far as I knew that wasn’t part of the plan for our celebration. When we heard it again I realized it was the sound of gunfire, diluted by distance.

"That was up at the farm," Ray gritted out, already in motion. He darted back into the Guardhouse for our weapons while Jack and Matt streaked to the Land Rover. Instantly, Tomo was on his feet and starting to freak out, when Mike came running from the guard station at the other end of the compound.

"I got him," he called to us, waving to Matt, and protectively tucking our former guitarist into his arm.

"Whose got the point?" Jared hollered, wanting reassurance about who would be responsible for securing the compound.

"Will!" Mike responded, almost apologetically. "Don’t worry! We’re on it! Go take care of business!"

We just might have broken a land speed record for four-wheel drive getting up Firefox’s dirt and stone driveway. When we arrived, Eric was standing there waiting to greet us with a face as dark as a thundercloud.

"I’ll let you deal with this," he growled at Jared as my brother scrambled out of Ray’s truck. Oh, I was thinking, that’s not good.

For over a week now we’ve been living on a nearly vegetarian diet due to the exhaustion of our supply of frozen meat. So far, for most of us it hasn’t been much of a problem, and none at all for Jared, or me either, really. Which is maybe why we weren’t thinking enough about it. Plus, the fact that at least we knew Matt was probably getting us some beef in the near future. But the thing is, for kids like Nate and Logan, unaware of Stan’s issues at the dairy and with no apparent end to the meat shortage in sight, the meals-per-day to veggie-diet ratio had already gone on long enough. And at some point they must have begun to consider taking matters into their own hands. So, today, they made the decision to go "hunting." Well, why not? They knew where all the guns and bullets were kept, right?

After choosing their weapon, a Winchester M70 rifle with a scope, the boys hiked about three hundred yards across the field behind the house to a spot where they knew they’d spotted a couple of groundhogs browsing most mornings and evenings. Usually, the wild critters out here are a little shy of the humans, but I guess living in relatively close proximity to us for all this time might have dulled their natural wariness somewhat. Anyway, by simply tramping up to them guilelessly, Nate and Logan were able to get off a couple of shots at fairly close range, and packing the kind of fire power you would use to stop, say, a fucking _bear_ they unintentionally but very efficiently blew that pair of poor, fur-bearin’ varmints to smithereens. I doubt there was a single scrap left large enough for the soup pot. Nice. Way to go, guys.

"That’s it," Jared snapped, surveying the damage and seething in a cold fury at having been scared, for no good reason, half out of his wits. "I’m separating you two. Nate, you are staying right here on the farm. Somewhere Eric, or Cody can keep a very close eye on you. And Logan," my brother turned on his little dearest and I held my breath. "You and Ray are coming back down to the compound where I am moving you both in together."

"B-but, we can’t," Logan babbled in confusion. "What about the rules? We’re…like… single men."

"Not anymore," Jared huffed.

Privately, I stole a sneaking glance at Matt’s astonished expression, and watched as it slowly morphed into a satisfied smirk.

\---------

Jared’s hand reached for our new dimmer switch, lowering the light in our ‘bedroom’ while I shrugged out of my clothes. We’d spent a silent evening together on the bus, him reading his old copy of the _Odyssey_ that I nearly forgot he even owned. The conversation we’d started that morning hadn’t been forgotten, it was just… waiting, and now we were alone.

"You were trying to find a way to avoid dealing with the black markets," he stated, knowing we were both thinking about the same thing.

"Yeah."

"Because there’s always so much that we need." He stood studying the binding of the book he still held in his hand like it might hold the answer to a riddle. "And so many things we never seem to have any hope of finding," he added.

His voice sounded so heavy and tired. "Look," I said gently. "I mean, think about it. If, by some miracle, we actually manage to live through this first part of the recovery, where it’s all about getting enough food to eat, and clean water to drink, then comes the next phase. And that one’s gonna be about rebuilding, and finding replacement parts for the machinery and our vehicles, and stuff like clothes and shoes for the kids… All this time, we’ve been going at things like we’re headed straight back to the stone age. But, what if we’re not?"

He nodded, dragging his gaze around the bus interior, looking at everything and nothing at all. "You know, Frank might be dealing with the black markets himself."

"Yeah, maybe," I answered. "But if so, I hoped having a layer of the National Guard between us and them would be a nice cushion." That is, depending on how Frank sees his job description.

"Jesus, Shannon, Frank could _be_ the fucking black market around here for all we know," Jared blurted out, wearily rubbing his face with his hands.

"You really think that?"

"No," he said. Then he asked. "Why didn’t you just tell me?"

"I don’t know." That was not the truth. "I guess I thought if it all went south, I could, y’ know, keep everybody here out of it. And you, too." Okay, that was much closer.

He sank down to the mattress on the floor and began tugging himself out of his jeans. At first, I wasn’t sure if that meant we’d come to the end of the matter for now, or what, until he finally drew a breath and said, "You’ve tried that before."

"I know."

He paused to pull his shirt off over his head. "It always ends badly." His sad whisper had a rough, admonishing edge to it.

"Jared." On the one hand, I felt like I was pleading with him for his understanding, and on the other, it seemed more like I was trying to explain something to a small child. "Sometimes a good ending is not an option. There’s only bad endings and worse ones." Look at Tomo, for example.

He was silent for a long time before he finally spoke again. "Given the choice between going to hell with you, or getting along without you, I’ll take my chances in hell," he replied, blinking up at me.

Deep inside, I smothered a sigh. Little brother, you think I don’t know that?

 

\---------

033/00

Gamma

I haven’t been asleep for very long when Tomo wakes me with his quiet, persistent shuffling under the sheets. I know why he’s restless, and inwardly, I feel a familiar pang of conflict grab at me, someplace down deep where I’ve recently buried my conscience. Because I also know, as soon as I move and Tomo realizes I’m awake, his hands will reach for me; softly, hesitantly, hoping for a warm and comforting reception. We’ve already stumbled our way through this awkward ritual enough times by now I can recognize the signs. Gradually, I have to admit, it’s gotten easier.

Finally, I stretch and roll towards him. His fingers skitter imploringly over my chest, but no lower. Not yet. Not until I say it’s okay. Back in the beginning it took me a while to figure out, but eventually it dawned on me -- someone must have taught him that.

Carefully, I slide my head across the pillow until my lips rest against his forehead. Not quite a kiss. "I’m here. It’s alright, you’re okay." We’re okay.

My hands stroke down his back as he wriggles closer, the evidence of his need suddenly becoming clearer and much more tangible. These days, that alone is enough to stimulate my own arousal, before he even begins exploring me, or I, him. For a long time I thought I’d lost contact with this particular part of myself. Like, the life force inside me was slowly going out along with the rest of the lights. But now there’s Tomo, who needs me. One thing about him, through it all and in spite of everything that’s happened, his desire to keep going must have been, must still be, very strong.

My inferred permission sends his hands searching lower. Without much finesse, I encourage him out of his flannel sleep pants, knowing this won’t take long. Tomo isn’t really interested in anything except relieving his tension and the cuddling that comes afterwards. He knows enough to wait for me to be able to join him, though, and that it always seems to take me a little longer.

Our hands find a rhythm that’s satisfying for both of us. Tomo’s hips roll upward eagerly, unaffected by any need to conceal his pleasure at my touch. At first, it wasn’t always like this, but tonight he’s relaxed and pressing himself happily against my palm. I wrap my hand around him snugly and he grunts in contentment, squeezing himself in and out of my warm fist.

Tomo has a few tricks of his own, or so I’ve learned from our trial and error, and every now and then he surprises me with one of them. Not tonight, though. It’s almost as if he senses the familiar means more to me at the moment, and I’ve already had enough of the unexpected for one day. His breath escapes in anxious little puffs that tease across my throat as his energy increases. The buzz of sexual wanting is filling my head. I can feel an erotic burn radiating off of his skin anywhere and everywhere he’s touching me. We’re getting closer.

Our legs lock together keeping our hands trapped between our bodies. My thoughts, for once, are completely submerged in our own little nether world of wet and heat. All of my senses are screaming to me about the long weeks of anxiety and denial. I want to taste him, I want to hear him. I open my mouth and press my tongue against his flesh; I bury my nose in his hair.

He’s making little sounds in the back of his throat that descend directly to the point of our fevered sexual contact. His lips move over my face. He might be whispering, but there are no words. Demandingly, my free hand clutches at the back of his hip as we thrust against one another. Almost immediately, I detect the beginning of his urgent, intimate trembling that always signals the prelude to our end game. Then suddenly, I’m the one who’s shuddering, and I can feel him pulsing in my hand. Now, it’s now.

His hair lies lank and tickles over my damp cheek. We cling together for a while like people in a daze. Slowly, the pleasant haze and adrenaline rush slips away, though, and reality creeps back in. I go into the bathroom for a wet cloth and towel to clean us up with. When I come back, Tomo is sitting on the side of the bed looking around uncertainly.

He always wears this look of confusion and worry right afterwards. I tell him what he did was fine and, just like I tell him about everything else at least a hundred times a day, it’s okay. But I still don’t think he understands. Not completely.

I want to tell him that whatever sort of things he did -- that I suspect he did -- in order to survive while he was away from us, it’s not the same as what he does now when he wants to, or just because it feels good. He has a choice. And I want him to know that I need to be with him, too, and that I do love him in my own way. And the thing I really wish I could tell him is that all I want, what I want desperately, is for the hurt to go away. For both of us.

Tomo reaches for his sleep pants and methodically dresses himself for bed again, for the second time tonight. I smooth the covers over us, and he settles into my arms. We have just a few more hours to spend together like this before dawn lights the sky and we begin another new day. My head is heavy on the pillow and my eyes are already closing. Sometime in the next few moments, the dark and the battlefield of dreams will come to claim me, sending me back to a world from yesterday that will never live again.

\-- stop --


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Five "Perfect Denial"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* The Tribe is experiencing growing pains. Logan and Ray may be an item, but Jared and Shannon, it seems, are an issue. Shannon goes to the farm to dig his kit out of storage and makes a harsh discovery. Tomo does have a mind and a will of his own that’s finally beginning to express itself.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.

\--------- * --------- * ---------  
What if I wanted  
to break?  
  
…what would you do?"  
\--------- * --------- * ---------

　

036/00

Alpha

It’s been three days since I ordered Ray and Logan off the farm and back down to the compound again. Three days of trying to maintain my serene, Buddha-like composure while the rest of the tribe have been whispering incessantly among themselves and getting their collective shorts in a bunch. When they first arrived together, toting all their worldly possessions in the back of Ray’s pick-up truck, I tried making a brief, minimalist public statement about the new couple’s permanent presence among us, stressing my sincere expectation that they would be treated like any other _family_ living at the Swallows. Because I knew Logan had been absolutely right, someone would bring up the rule against housing single men. But, aside from that, I’m afraid I stinted on specific details. And since there is an age difference between Ray and Logan that is… significant, as in, father-son significant, it is possible my reticence and brevity have, in the long run, only made matters worse. Now, after years of long-standing habit, Ray's public behaviour was giving away nothing, and Logan would never be described as the most communicative kid by anybody's definition. So, no one was quite sure what the hell was going on, and inquiring minds wanted to know.

The other thing I did that probably didn’t help matters either was, after issuing my edict as soon as we got back from the farm, I presented myself at the motel office and told Sarah to arrange for our two, new resident "significant others" to have private accommodations of their own. As if we weren’t overcrowded enough. She nodded once, acknowledging that she’d heard me, and avoided all eye contact.

That little bit of the silent treatment from the Sibyl of Gabriel Crossing should have tipped me off right there. For reasons that were still mostly obscure to me, it was slowly becoming clearer I was letting myself in for a world of grief.

This morning Matt’s eyes are twinkling at me in undisguised amusement over his milk and spoon bread, because fidgeting nervously just on the other side of our breakfast table, there stands a hopeful young couple who have come to make a humble request. It is their wish to be formally married. Having heard the rumor that perhaps such things are possible now, they’ve screwed up the courage to approach me, most reverently and with all due respect. Him, I recognize. He's one of our boys from up at the farm, but I am unfamiliar with her. Later, I find out she’s a townie, a pretty young thing with long chestnut hair he's been slipping off to kanoodle with in the middle of the night. In her over-eagerness and excitement, I must say, she’s positively glowing. One can hardly fail to notice how, beneath her shirt, two tiny breasts heave breathlessly with barely contained anticipation. She would also like to know if they can get a room all their own, too.

The entire Guardhouse, currently full of grim-faced petitioners who have been lining the walkway outside since daybreak, suddenly falls silent. It seems to me that every last one of them, consciously or unconsciously, is staring across the room at Ray. They're like vultures, the lot of them, watching and circling soundlessly in hopes of an easy meal.

"I’ll take it under consideration," I reply cautiously. Somewhere in the background, Matt coughs quietly. Already another day is threatening to spin out of control and I can feel my mood starting to curdle. Whatever happened to planning that big ol’ Fourth of July bash they were once so excited about? Why aren’t they all busy distracting themselves with that?

"Don’t we have a holiday celebration to plan?" I venture cheerfully. It’s like I’m trying to lure crows away from roadkill by waving shiny objects at them. Any other time it might work, but fat chance while there’s still the smell of carrion in the air.

I confess I’m more than a little irked because _if_ , as I suspect, all this simmering acrimony turns out to be just the first sampling of an endemic homophobia, I don’t have time for it. And it’s not like I didn’t warn them about what was bound to happen as soon as they sequestered all the unattached males together in the tight living quarters up at the farm. Okay, no, actually. I guess I didn’t warn them. I kept my dire warnings to myself. But, I was right.

Afterwards, when it’s just the four of us, I say to Matt, "It was nothing like this when you moved in with Tomo."

"Well," he hedges, "that was sorta different."

Oh? To whom, I wonder. Fortunately, I think before I speak this time. Never mind.

Momentarily, that leaves us sitting in a touchy silence which, for some reason, Tomo chooses to fill with one of his rare vocalizations; a single meaningless syllable burbled at no one in particular. I reach over instinctively to smooth his hair, and then rub my hand comfortingly across his shoulder. He’s smiling softly to himself like he’s hiding a pleasant secret.

That’s today. Earlier in the week, though, right after the hunting debacle up at the farm, Tomo had been an emotional mess. After sorting out their shit at Foxfire and returning to the Swallows, we'd found him crouched in a corner of the Guardhouse angling the wounded side of his head toward the joint between the walls, like he was trying desperately to sheild it from more injury. Mike who'd been keeping watch over both Tomo and the compound, was standing next to him in a fit of helpless agitation, hollering to Matt for help.

Bless Mike for trying. He’d done his best to be reassuring, but after the panic that had been set off by the sound of distant gunfire, and witnessing us all running around with rifles, Tomo had completely lost it again. He'd shut down and closed in on himself. Suddenly he was as silent and distant as he’d been when Shannon and Matt had first brought him home. For the rest of the day and most of that night none of us could get throught to him. He wouldn’t eat, he wouldn’t sleep, and no amount of consoling from me or Matthew seemed able to penetrate his fear and confusion. Finally, after an unsuccessful attempt at supper, Matt took him away to the privacy of their room. And later, he reported, sometime around midnight Tomo had sipped at some sweet tea and let Matt feed him one of Sarah’s homemade cookies. Then, Matt told me, he’d finally permitted himself to be taken to bed, and together they got a few hours of restless, broken sleep.

Now, three days later, Tomo seems to have forgotten the whole incident. This morning, for example, our former culinary warlock is supremely happy stirring the last of his scrambled eggs into his Frosted Flakes, and actually using a spoon for the first time. I don’t know where or how Matt managed to acquire a cache of packaged cold cereal, but ever since he did, breakfast has been a remarkably merrier occasion.

Well, like it or not, I know I can’t let the natives’ unrest go unaddressed forever. So, as soon as morning audience is over, I summon up my fortitude and head down to the local Oracle’s office to see if she’ll have a word with me.

When I walk in, I find her mending clothes by hand, something I’ve seen the other women doing recently.

"Alright," I say, leaning across the counter and proceeding directly to the question. "What’s with the attitude problem around here that nobody wants to talk to me about?"

I can tell from the way Sarah’s not looking at me I’ve somehow managed to cross the threshold of her tolerance as well. This is personal.

"Jared, over the last month, do you have any idea how many people have been asked to change their living arrangements? Repeatedly?" She’s staring intensely at her needle as it jabs in and out of the fabric in her hands.

Don’t you hate it when someone answers your question with a question? Me, too. But this one’s an easy answer. "Mmm, no. No clue. Not since the day you informed me and Eric that running the Swallows was your affair."

That reply earns me a short glare, and she tosses her mending down on the counter in irritation. "I have families doubled up in some rooms. People are struggling just to make homes for themselves here."

God, I knew it was going to come to this. "And, what?" I respond slowly, but even I can hear the edge of testiness in my voice. "Logan and Ray aren’t entitled to do the same?"

"That’s not what I’m saying," I watch her consciously rein in some of her energy before she adds, "although, that is what some of them are saying."

Not to my face, they aren’t. And a damn good thing, too. "Well, if they don’t like the way I do things, they can leave any time they want."

They won’t though, and we both know it. Where the fuck else are they going to go? If they stay, they’ve got safety in numbers, not to mention armed guards patrolling both ends of the compound dedicated to the preservation of our common good. They’ve got a roof over their heads, some limited but reliable means of transportation and communication, regular if occasionally uninteresting meals, hot running water, plus we’ve got our own healthcare system. Under the present circumstances, where else in this god forsaken country can they expect to find all that?

So, deal with it. Sometimes the dictatorship is less benevolent than others.

It’s like she can read every thorny, unuttered thought in my mind, and I watch in mild astonishment as those few ill-tempered words I did let slip have the unintended effect of falling through the air like first strike missiles. One heartbeat after I’ve spoken them something between us snaps. You can almost literally hear it crack, like glacial ice. Hell, in all its incarnate womanly fury, is about to freeze over.

"The last time you chose to sanctify a relationship," Sarah says frigidly, "at least you had the decency to provide your own housing." Carefully, she has taken aim and unleashed her retaliatory remark. With deadly precision.

For an instant I’m regrouping behind my cold, blue stare. This is about _Shannon?_ Whoa, girl. Word of advice: do not go there. Do not even start with me, bitch.

Without warning, I can feel what little remains of my morning's reserve of calm melting down like a nuclear core breach. Any sense I had of being inwardly centered goes spinning off into oblivion, and I must admit, it’s exhilarating. The restraint I’ve been exercising for so long in the effort to keep myself focused and disciplined is suddenly gone, unleashing a powerful predator. I’ll rip her heart out. One opportunistic fuck does not a priviledged relationship make. This cunt is out of bounds, out of line, and -- just to be perfectly clear -- way out of her league. If she says another single word to me about my brother, she’ll find herself giving birth to her own lungs.

No. Stop, I tell myself. Think, think, think, _before_ you open your mouth. For Sarah, this is plainly about a transgression far more personal than just our persistent problems with overcrowding. Obviously she's ready to have it out with me and get some heretofore unspeakable thought off her chest. All she needs is an excuse. For me, though, there is absolutely nothing worthwhile in pursuing this singularly devilish issue about the unique 'partnership' I share with my brother Shannon to its bloody conclusion.

I lower my voice, and breathe. "Sorry. This time I’m fresh out of tour buses."

She presses her lips together in a tight line and diverts her gaze. Seems I’ve earned myself a temporary truce with my tact. "Well, it doesn’t help much either that you appear to be reserving certain privileges for your inner circle," she says. That’s probably as diplomatic as she’s capable of being at the moment.

But, what the fuck is she talking about? Don’t we live the exact same life here as everybody else?

"The private rooms. The coffee… the cigarettes…" she elaborates.

Ah. Well, I’m not deliriously happy about every last item on her short list myself. And maybe she knows it, too, because while she’s not exactly apologizing, she is trying to go easy. At least we’ve got the discussion back on track. I nod and offer her a non-committal shrug. After all, I did ask what sort of bee everybody’s got up their butts. Now, I know. Though I have to wonder, why is it always all this petty bullshit between people that turns out to be so deadly? The real Lugers and the Glocks out there aren’t enough for us?

"You could do a lot to relax the tension if you could do something to relieve the crowding," she suggests quietly.

An instant later, my insight kicks in and it finally dawns on me how much effort Sarah has probably been putting into not taking sides on this issue. When it’s very likely that’s precisely what a lot of the disgruntled folks here have been working really hard at getting her to do. And, clearly, if there’s a weakness in my game, it’s Shannon. I have to admit it’s my own fault she has more than enough personal justification to make that play. I've certainly handed her an ample supply of ammunition.

In the old days, I remind myself, I’d have already eased out of town by now and been half way to the next city for our next show, and well out of her sight before getting back with my brother. Not still here in Gabriel Crossing flaunting the situation right under her nose. Yeah, I've always made it a point to be long gone before it ever came to a lot of feminine drama, but now… I have to play the ball where it lies.

"I’ll see what I can do," I promise.

In fact, finding a solution to the housing crisis is going to be the next hot item at the top of my priority list.

When I eventually wander home to the bus looking for Shannon, I find Mike there, too, sitting on the floor with Tomo trying to entertain him with a set of drumsticks.

"Hey," my brother greets me with a hopeful grin. "Mike’s got an idea for some entertainment at the Fourth of July gig." Gig? He’s deftly twirling a second pair of sticks in his hands with absentminded skill, and although the mere sight of him doing that pinches at my heart, I have to admit I like it a whole lot better than seeing Frank’s cigarettes dangling from his fingers.

Tomo’s watching Mike tap out a complicated rhythm on the floor when suddenly he barks excitedly. My god, I think that was a laugh. It’s hard to tell. But he’s slapping his hand against his leg cheerfully, and it’s apparent he’s able to keep with the beat.

"Okay," I say, acquiescing to what I perceive was a request for permission. "Just no twenty-one gun salutes, please."

"No! Hell, no," agrees Mike, still feeling the effects of Tomo’s emotional storm after the hunting incident the other day.

"We were gonna go up to the farm and check out our equipment," Shannon ventures tentatively. "It hasn’t been sitting for that long. Should still be fine." He means the instruments, and all the other paraphernalia from our former days as a band that we’ve kept stored in the barn. "You want to come?"

I hear a telltale something extra in his question that I know I should be alert to, but I have to set it aside for now.

"I’ll pass. But, when you get there, would you send Eric down to the compound?"

"No problem," says Shannon, in his best, most hopeful maybe-later tone of voice. He’s deeply disappointed I'm not going with them though, I can feel it. "Mind if we take Tomo?"

"Umm…." Why am I hesitating? It actually might be good for him. "Sure. Keep a close eye on him just... in case, okay?" Matt won’t be happy when he finds out, but he’ll get over it. He’s already gone for the day with a group of the women on a tomato picking foray. Whatever they bring back that we can’t eat fresh, we’ve decided to try drying in the sun.

Shannon tucks his sticks in his back pocket and pulls Tomo to his feet. With a firm hand, he dusts him off and then fetches his jacket, a sure sign to Tomo that he’s going for a ride. But then, his expression tightens woefully when it becomes clear I’m not going along.

"It’s alright, babe. You’ll be okay," I soothe, hugging him. "Shannon’s gonna take you someplace special." A kiss and a cuddle later, he reluctantly follows Gabriel Crossing’s new street drum corps out the door.

As for my own objectives for the day, I need to find Ray, who must have gone back to the room he shares with Logan. First, because I’m going to need his help with a new project I’m planning. And second, because given the current social situation, I’m guessing maybe he could use a little moral support from me.  
  
  
\---------

036/00

Beta

It took us a while digging through the maze of our old production gear, but finally underneath all that, we came across at least a dozen hard-sided guitar cases. And then Mike and I found most of my drum kit, which we systematically spread out across the barn floor. Unassembled, there was quite an array of stuff, and almost everything still in practically perfect condition. ‘Cause, the reality was, we’d only gotten to play that one concert of our new tour before the world as we knew it came to an end.

"I wish we’d brought along more skins and sticks, though, Shan," Mike observed regretfully. "Because I don’t know how the hell we’re gonna manage once we’ve gone through what we’ve got."

"We’ll ask Matt to conjure up some more for us out of nowhere. He’s good at that sort of thing," I answered absently, surveying the scene. It hadn't occured to me yet we were both talking like this was going to be a new, regular thing. "Where’s my crystal bowl?" I wondered out loud. They’re called singing bowls, and they’re awesome. Twenty-two inches of pure, clean, mystical tone.

"I didn’t unpack it," Mike glanced at me apologetically.

"Good. Don’t," I said. "Someone’ll try to use it to serve punch."

Not far from where I stood, Tomo was sitting on the concrete slab floor playing some sort of mysterious game with himself using a pile of guitar picks. The ones with the four glyphs on them. Kinda like a game of Runes, maybe, but who knows? I had tried showing him his old Les Paul, but he’d wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. He was, however, keenly interest in the splendid assortment of tools, lovingly polished and neatly organized over by the workbench in the far corner.

"No," I'd told him firmly. "Those are Ray’s. Don’t touch," and instantly, I felt him stiffen with resentment. That’s new, I thought. He’s angry with me. But before I had a chance to contemplate what the hell I would do if he decided to give me a hard time, he turned docilely, and shuffled back to his markers and notebook. That’s when I offered him the guitar picks as a distraction.

Then, after I'd gone back to helping Mike dig for more burried treasure, mixed in with all the other refuse of our former life that we’ve kept stashed away up here on the farm, I was startled to find Jared’s favorite acoustic guitar carefully tucked in its case and left among the rest of the rubble. Someone had leaned it unceremoniously against a pile of our rolled up banners where it was silently collecting dust.

Well, that was a big slap in the face for me, coming across it buried in the barn that way. Like grave goods, or a broken trust. Like, hello, Shannon, wake up. It’s time you got a fucking clue. Because back in the beginning, in those first early days of the Crisis, I know for a fact Jared had his guitar with him down at the compound. I remember it was in our motel room, and in the evenings sometimes he would sit outside and play a little. And he’d sing. But then, I guess, after we moved out of the Swallows and onto our old tour bus, he must have had Eric or somebody bring it up here to the farm for him, and ditch it. Without me even noticing.

And now, here it was, haunting me, like a vision from the past.

While I was still thinking about that, I realized I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d seen my brother with a guitar in his hands. And instantly I had this dreadful flashback. But, truthfully, I think I’d already guessed why he wouldn’t come up to the farm with us today, and right here was part of the reason.

I mean, I don’t understand everything about why Jared brushed me off the way he did, or what else he had on his mind. But as a symbolic image of our whole situation, if I were to go and get my camera, this is the shot I would take. Says it all. History and destiny. Yeah, this one picture of Jared’s abandoned guitar would tell you volumes about our story. Without me having to struggle to put it into words.

What can I say about that? Well, forgive me for not being able to precisely describe the exact feeling I got in my gut when I first made my discovery. But, I guess I’d say deep in the pit of my stomach it felt as if I’d swallowed something cold and heavy, or like a part of my insides had suddenly turned to stone. Almost as if there was some kind of dead weight inside of me that I’d been dragging around all this long, long time, but without actually noticing. Or, maybe I've just been trying really hard not to.

This is what coping with the aftermath of the Crisis has been doing to us. Plus every other harsh, dark, demanding and debilitating thing that we deal with, day in and day out. It’s like, ever since we got to Gabriel Crossing, or right after that, somehow the music had gone out of Jared’s soul.

And, to be honest? I’m not dealing with that thought very well. I mean, I don't get it. I will never ever understand how that could’ve happened. Although it's pretty fucking obvious at this point that it has. Not after all our years together. And the commitments that we've made to one another. Not after all this time with these other guys in the band. There are parts of Jared inside that are literally _made_ of music, body and blood. It's who he is, and my own life keeps time to that melody with every beat of my heart. So now, he's just giving it up? How is this even happening? I mean, while there’s still a single breath of life left in him?

Please, God, no. Not here, not now.

Not again.  
  
  
\---------

036/00

Gamma  
  
We did a good day’s work. When we got back to the compound, I was able to present Jared with a whole truckload of fresh tomatoes and fava beans. Lucky for us, none of the other pickers we met there were much interested in the strange looking shrubbery with their unfamiliar pods, but I knew what they were since Jared used to eat them all the time. Fava beans are a pretty good source of protein, so we took all we could get.

But that wasn’t the best part. There was a bonus. About halfway through the day, while we were taking a break for lunch, a local huckster showed up towing his battered wagon, looking to make some trades. He’d brought along boxes of almonds in the shell and baskets of firm, ripe plums -- sweet as anything you’ve ever tasted. Almonds aren’t the sort of thing you’ll find growing in Braeburn County. This windfall is the product of the roads starting to open up again. Sarah and I traded avidly for both the nuts and the fruit, figuring any plums the tribe couldn’t eat over the next few days we’d set out on drying racks with our surplus tomatoes. We didn’t manage to get all the way home without passing around some of the fresh sweets, though. I certainly ate my share, I can tell you, driving along with my sticky hands on the wheel and nectar running down my chin.

While I was explaining all that to Jared, and offering him samples I'd sliced up with my knife, I suddenly noticed how he was slowly and hungrily eyeing me over wearing a coy, familiar smile.

"What?" I ask self-consciously while juice dribbled down my hand. I knew that look. Back in the day, that look usually meant it was time to cover my ass, literally.

He'd accepted the first tender slices of red fruit delicately with the tips of his fingers. But now, "Need some help cleaning up?" he murmured, gently grasping my wrist and raising the second bite to his lips directly from my hand.

Yeah, that’s the look alright.

"Ah, no, thanks," I mumbled, an involuntary grin spreading across my face. "I think if Tomo catches me with another man licking fruit off my fingers, there might be trouble."

I watched Jared’s expression betray the strain of keeping his next thought to himself, just like I’ve seen him do a lot recently. But his smile grew wider and it was genuine, I think. I was guessing this small overture meant that, using extreme caution, we’d begun the slow process of teasing our way back to normal. Only, Jesus, if I’d only known sooner how long Jared was going to hang on to his issues about Tomo, I might have handled things a bit differently right from the start.

You know, sometimes I wonder what Shannon thinks to himself about all this. Not that I’m quite ready to ask.

"Where is Tomo anyway?" I glanced around, suddenly realizing I hadn’t seen him since getting back.

With an air of overstated calm, Jared told me Mike and Shannon had taken Tomo up to the farm with them, and then he paused, waiting for my reaction.

My first thought was that me being here with Jared, and Tomo up there with Shannon was probably a safer arrangement than the other way around. So, if Jay was worried I was going to raise an objection, I wasn’t. Ever since this strange business with Roger began, my feelings about leaving Jared alone with Tomo have been... maybe I'm being silly, but it makes me uneasy. Then again, I overreact to a lot of things about Tomo these days.

"Actually, I’m glad he’s with them," Jared remarked, like he was hoping unnecessarily the power of his affirmation could persuade me to think so, too. "Because I have a little job to do and I need to bring you along for an opinion."

That sounded simple and straight-forward enough, at least on the surface. But after years of experience, I figured I knew better than to accept any of Jared’s simple assertions at face value.

"Like what?" I asked warily, recalling how the last time I’d taken Jared’s casual, straight-forward word for something, I’d found myself kissing my brand new wife good-bye and boarding a plane bound for Beijing.

A few minutes later, we were joined by Eric and Ray, and started hiking south along the main road in the direction towards town. Logan, I noticed, was tagging along. I wasn’t sure if he’d been formally invited, but if not, Jared wasn’t saying a word about it.

As we walked, Jared announced his plan to expand our usable living space by annexing a small, nearby office complex. We could see it ahead of us; it’s on a property almost right next door to the Swallows geographically, about a half-block away on the same side of the street. I was wracking my brain trying to remember if I knew of anybody still living in the area with an ownership interest in the building, but I was fairly sure there was no one. The structure itself is just a single-story -- block and stucco, with an alarm system Jack once assured me would be easy enough to get around if we cut a hole through the roof. We didn’t bother going to all that trouble, though, since there’s nobody left these days to answer the alarms anyway. We did, however, board up politely after ourselves when we were done inside.

Consequentially, Eric and I had no trouble regaining entry. Inside, there was surprisingly little damage or evidence of other looters. I suppose that’s because there isn’t the same demand for filing cabinets and hi-tech accounting systems as there used to be.

The entire facility consists of four office suites. Like I said, it’s tiny. Three of them are units comprised of two individual offices and a small reception area, plus each suite has it’s own powder room. No showers, but I thought perhaps the existing plumbing could be modified somehow. The fourth suite is larger and has a break area with a miniature under-the-counter refrigerator, a sink, and a built in microwave. Miraculously, the microwave and fridge were still both in place and working.

"So, how many families do you think we can house here?" Jared asked us, once we’d had a chance to look around.

"Eight or nine comfortably," I answered. "That’s assuming you don’t put too fine a point on the word ‘comfortable.’ There’s no laundry, no way to take a bath, and no real means to cook a decent meal. Office furniture only, nothing like beds. You can’t get the windows open short of breaking them because they’ve been sealed for the air conditioning…but the roof is still solid," I assured him with a grin. Believe me, that wasn’t foresight on our part, that was laziness. When we were letting ourselves in the first time, we’d figured it was loads easier to just break glass. "What else do you need to know?"

His smile was half grimace. "That’ll do for now."

Logan and Ray were touring the various offices together. I could hear the sound of Ray’s voice murmuring softly about load bearing walls and floor plans -- as tender and intimate a portrait of male bonding as you’re ever likely to see. Obviously, the honeymoon was still on. It was odd for me, though, watching Jared work so hard at being a part of all this. Not that he, like most guys, doesn’t share the primal instinct to build something lasting, but my own experience of Jared is that he never much went in for these brick and mortar sort of projects. In fact, I’ve personally witnessed Jared discard an entire lifetime’s worth of material acquisitions, just so he could get on with his next incarnation. He’s always been about building dreams.

As for me, I’m discovering there’s something very satisfying about establishing your place in the world. Not your role, but your place. And I’m starting to wonder if there was ever really as much hardcore rebellion in my soul as I once thought there was, years ago. I mean, maybe the driving need to play my heart out every night in some grimy, hellhole of a club was just the by-product of a younger man’s restless sense of adventure? I don’t know. New towns, new faces, new audiences. Over and over again, there was always the desire to prove myself amidst all that music, punk, and ink.

Look at us now, though. None of us, in our wildest imaginations could have dreamed up the proving ground fate would find for us here. There are perils and heartbreak in this place beyond even our worst nightmares, right along side the small victories and moments of hope. One thing is certain, however, and it’s just as true today as the first time it was ever said -- what doesn’t kill you, will make you stronger.  
  
  
\---------

036/00

Xi

 

\--stop--


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Five "Perfect Denial"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* On a mountain he sits. Not of gold. Three days of Jared’s unexpurgated POV on the shadow of his shared past, the almost overwhelmingly problematic present, and an uncertain future.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.

\--------- * --------- * ---------  
"What if I wanted  
to break?  
  
…what would you do?"  
\--------- * --------- * ---------

　

037/00

Alpha

Silk stockings and chocolate. Or rather, during World War II, I guess it was nylons, actually. Not silk. Silk was strictly for parachutes, or something like that. I remember my grandmother telling me about how she used to watch her older sister mend her hose at night, trying to make them last. Anyway, the story goes that when all the guys finally came home from the war, they told their tall tales of conquest like men do everywhere, I suppose. And among other things -- such as instant coffee powder and cigarettes -- stockings were by far one of a G.I.’s best ploys.

I was trying to remember when was the last time I’d seen a woman in black fishnets, and as you might have guessed, it had been a while. Nevertheless, there she was. Lip gloss, short skirt, five-inch heels. At that moment, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember her name, because personally I never knew her very well. But back in the beginning, following that first night of the Crisis, I know for certain she’d been living at the Swallows right along with the rest of us. These days, however, please note: she is no longer quite like the rest of us. And by that I mean, what we had here was not the sort of rigging out you would set off in to go pick peas. I’m not really sure where she’s been living recently either.

Yeah, there’s a reason why they call it the world’s oldest profession, and when this present world as we know it finally comes to an ignominious end it will be the longest running one, too, I’m sure. No question in my mind about that. I was loitering on the back parking lot hidden in the shadow of our bus, watching with less than completely detached interest as my brother shared his cigarette with her. There they stood, side by side, next to the rear door of the Guardhouse. Their heads were tilted intimately towards one another, close enough they were almost touching. Lost in a private conversation.

Here was the odd part, though. After they’d been talking for a minute or two, when I could sense the negotiation was about to come to a close, _she_ reached into her shoulder bag, and handed _him_ something. A package, not much bigger than his hand, which he slipped under his jacket and tucked up securely beneath his arm. Then, they parted company.

So. This was how my brother had been keeping in touch with Colonel Mustard. By lurking around behind the Conservatory, using the monkey wench. That was all I needed to see this morning to make my fragile prayer-and-duct tape universe come crashing down around me.

I felt an instantaneous surge of panic so strong I thought my heart might literally leap out of my throat, no figure of speech intended. Realizing I wasn’t absolutely positive about what I had just witnessed made exactly no difference whatsoever, the adrenaline rush was already happening and I was helpless to stop it. I tried rationalizing my way through the need to take a time-out for some clear-headed thought, and struggled to talk myself down from my suspicions. Still, my pulse was hammering through my body with enough force to make my scalp tingle and my hands were shaking. Arduously, I gulped down breath after sharp breath of air, because it seemed like my lungs might be getting ready to explode any minute. Is this what an anxiety attack feels like, I wondered dizzily?

I knew there would be considerable drama, not to mention embarrassment, if I suddenly keeled over in a public swoon right there on the middle of the blacktop. So, hoping to remain invisible, I shrank back around the front of the bus and tip-toed inside through its narrow doorway. Gracelessly, I stumbled up the stairs, and there I stood with my arms hugged tightly around my heaving ribs. Tears I had no control over were prickling at the back of my eyes. Jared, I told myself, get a fucking grip.

Slowly, I did. Although, I admit it took me several long moments to quiet my ragged breathing and get my heart rate under control again. Here’s a little tip: you see, not all of my time spent living in Los Angeles, California, performance pressure capitol of the world, had been a complete waste. I did managed to learn a few useful tricks. In through the nose, one, two, three, four… out through the mouth, two, three, four…

Fortunately, I was alone, because our bus remodel had been put on temporary hiatus until after the Fourth of July bash. Therefore, no one was present to witness my near surrender to a total emotional collapse. Thank god, I was thinking. Then, naturally, just as I was about to bless all the stars in heaven for being permitted to keep that moment of insecurity to myself, I heard the faint, telltale scrape of boot leather on the steps behind me. Fuck.

It was Shannon. Well, I figured there was no use pretending I could fool him by attempting to put my face in order, so I didn’t try.

"Hey." He stopped just on the edge of the top step, looking me over soberly, but not coming any closer.

I swallowed audibly thinking, next, words would come out of my mouth. However I was wrong about that. They didn’t.

"You okay?" He frowned, and risked inching one foot forward.

I lifted my chin, gesturing in his direction. "What’s in the box?" I finally managed to stutter.  
  
Neither one of us moved while his gazed searched me thoroughly, his eyes gleaming at me like a great cat’s. His face was a stoic, motionless, nearly impervious mask that seemed to be asking me, "What box?" But to my surprise, with one fluid motion, he simply reached under his jacket and pulled it out.

"Saw that, huh?" The corner of his mouth curled ever so slightly. "Thought maybe you did."

"Broad daylight, Shan."

He handed me the thin package covered in plain brown paper and sealed with packing tape. "Why, Grand Mama," he murmured tauntingly. "What big eyes you have."

Too small to be a carton of cigarettes. Too nondescript to be anything completely innocent. Much too light for me to actually be holding the weight of my entire world in my hands.

"Go ahead, open it."

Challenge? Dare? Confession? His voice was so carefully neutral, I had no idea what he was telling me.

The tape and paper tore away easily. I breathed through the effort it took to hold the box steady in my quaking hands. When I lifted off the lid, I saw precisely the nightmare I’ve dreamt one too many times already in this life, thank you.

Filled syringes. With paper tags. And little round white tablets in a plastic bag. Another bag full of capsules. The capsules had red stripes around their middles, and … for half a panic-riddled second, my eyes swam.

But then I looked up to see my brother still watching me patiently. Waiting. His eyes were focused on me softly, his gaze searching mine earnestly and probing deeply into my soul.

I can’t explain how I suddenly knew what I knew, but between one heartbeat and the next -- all appearances to the contrary -- I was positive this was not the thing I’d been dreading and fearing for so long.

So, instantly, it was easy for me to say the unspeakable, to make jokes. "Please tell me," I said, "this is not about you pimping our women to support your drug habit." I looked at the tag on one of the syringes. "Valium?"

"You’ve seemed a little tense lately." he exhaled, tugging on the cuff of his jacket and settling himself against the railing at the top of the stairs. A smile was pulling at his lips. I knew I was being teased, jest for jest, we just hadn’t gotten to the punch line yet. Then, I noticed the bags were labeled, too. Phenobarbitol, Dilantin.

"Well, this should be enough to put me safely in a coma. You and Frank planning a coup?"

"It’s for seizures," Shannon explained, and he was being perfectly serious.

"Okay," I blinked. "I’ll admit maybe I’ve been a trifle crankier than usual recently, but…" My brother’s laughter interrupted me. "But, I think I’m still a good ways from throwing a _seizure_ ," I informed him.

"Cody asked me if we could get some," he elaborated, "while Frank was still in a generous mood."

The mention of Cody’s name suddenly made me consider the matter more directly. "We have someone here with a seizure disorder?"

"Well, no. But, Cody can give Valium or Phenobarbital to stop a convulsion." Shannon paused to clear his throat. "You know. So, he said it’d be good to have some on hand. ‘Cause, like, kids run high fevers sometimes, and they can get a convulsion. And then," I couldn’t help but notice how rapidly my brother’s hands were moving through the air while he was speaking. From experience, I’ve learned it’s something he’ll start to do whenever words are about to fail him. And, by adding that to the fact he was no longer looking me straight in the eye, I knew whatever was coming next, we were finally getting down to the business end of the deal. "Sometimes people with, uh, severe head injuries will start having seizures, too, afterwards."

Tomo. Oh, god.

"He’s okay right now, though," I blurted out anxiously. "No seizures." A statement, not a question. As if somehow by the force of my own assertion I could, at the very least, maintain his fragile recovery, status quo. Now and forever. Please, please Shannon, tell me he’s okay and you guys have not been keeping anything from me.

"Yeah, he’s fine. It’s just that the day he’s not, is no time to go wishing you had the right stuff around to deal with it. Anyway, Frank could hardly hand this sort of thing to us through the normal channels. So."

Granted. Interesting, though, how Colonel Grayson seemed to have a specific off-the-radar channel to suit every possible need that might arise.

Okay," I responded, accepting his explanation. Then, casually, I added, "So about your, contact," being careful to keep the tone of my voice intentionally neutral. "What’s her name again?" I smiled, all innocence and light.

Shannon’s eyes fixed on me with a piercing scowl. He wasn’t fooled. "Jared, don’t you even think about sampling Frank’s merch. Besides, in her own way, she’s a very nice girl."

"Oh, I can see that."

Maybe it was the way the words left my mouth, that somehow they didn’t sound quite sincere. "You know, you used to share your toys," I reminded him pointedly.

"Not that I don’t think maybe that’s exactly what you need," Shannon informed me with a very annoying note of authoritarianism in his voice, "but this conversation is over."

Damn it. Somehow, in spite of the circumstances surrounding Shannon's dubious positon in the matter, he'd still managed to get the big-brotherely upper hand. "Oh, and by the way," he added, "we have a mid-wife." As if these two subjects were intrinsically connected.

"A mid-wife?" I choked. We need a mid-wife? Already?

"She lives about two miles north of the farm. Used to work at a birthing center in Vallejo that’s boarded up now. That was the message Frank wanted to pass to me. I just need to get Cody and go see her so we can work something out."

How do you spell s-p-e-e-ch-less? Someone remind me, please. Because here was one fantastically bizarre juxtaposition of ideas -- my brother Shannon, and birthin’ babies -- that was almost enough to stop my mouth cold. Yet, amazingly it didn’t.

" _You_?" I squeaked in astonishment, and for one unguarded instant his brow arched at me in pained surprise before his whole demeanor seemed to curdle. Whoops, there I went again, verbal overdrive running off ahead of my better sense. "I’m sorry," I gasped between giggles, but since I’d already started laughing, I didn’t sound very sorry at all. "I’m sorry, Shannon, I know you’re very capable, but babies…really?"

"Alright, fine. Sarah, then," he snapped at me tersely. "Sarah can go with Cody."

Oh, shit, I thought, hardly able to believe he was going to take my unexpurgated reaction so seriously, and so badly, too. But he was. Fuck. It would have been practically impossible for me to have expressed a greater degree of no confidence in him, even using more than just that one syllable. And like always, I’d done it without even thinking.

"Sarah sounds like a good choice," I said, trying to be diplomatic while wondering what the hell I could do now about salving his wounded pride.

"Yeah," Shannon rumbled quietly. Fortunately, I noticed he was pretty quick to agree with me. Very likely my brother didn’t actually envision a future for himself managing a community outreach program for assisted child birth. No doubt the real sticking point was something else entirely.

But still, I was mentally kicking myself. Why did it seem like, one way or another, every time Shannon tried to take the initiative for dealing with any of the million and a half problems we were constantly faced with around here, I inevitably ended up cutting him off at the knees. No wonder he was forever sneaking off, trying to accomplish something "heroic" behind my back.

"Besides," I offered him, "You and I need to take a trip up to ‘Woodstock’ to check out whatever Eric’s been planning for the Fourth." Word on the street was my erstwhile production manager had gone and invited everyone in the entire village of Gabriel Crossing to come to the party.

"Oh!" Those tiger’s eyes of his were shining at me again. "You’re gonna love it."

God, I hope so, Shannon. I really do. Because it seems like I can barely remember a time when I did, and if you asked me right now I’d say there’s nothing we could use more than to bring back a little of the old magic again, the old passion. We were stardust, we were golden. And, somehow, we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden.  
  
  
\---------

038/00

Alpha

My brother is right. I really should make an effort to spend more time up at the farm instead of treating the entire place like the "zone of exile" where I’ve, more or less, purposefully interred all the symbols and iconography of my other life and its untimely dead end.

Yesterday, we inspected the field where groundhogs once dined in relative peace, but now various human interventions have changed all that. Presently, miles of Eric’s menacing black electrical cable lie snaked across a forbidding stretch of ground between the barn and our sturdy new flatbed trailer-slash-stage. Briefly, I wondered where Eric had gotten the flatbed. Then, decided not to ask.

"Are you sure there’s going to be enough power supply for all this?" I inquired instead, rather skeptically.

"Oh, sure. Foxfire used to be a working commercial farm. There’s plenty of power. At least until, you know, the day there isn’t any at all," Eric chuckled. I smile back. We’ve all grown so used to our own fatalism it’s like a running joke.

Also, while we were there visiting, Shannon stopped in on Cody to drop off Frank’s generous donation of illicit drugs, er, _pharmaceuticals_ , much to our Medicine Man’s delight.

So now, today, Matt has brought Tomo in for a little check-up.

There’s a section of the barn that Eric partitioned off with some modular walls he'd salvaged from our office building remodel, so now Cody has private space to use while examining his patients. Having things arranged this way has been pretty convenient for him since we reorganized the Vault to accommodate our drug stash. Everything’s handy. We’d removed most of the emergency rations and dried foodstuffs stored down there shortly after finding them, along with a lot of the routine survival gear. Then, we put the guns ’n’ ammo along one wall, and the drugs and medical supplies on the other. It makes an interesting statement about our new world, hoarding hollow points next to Keflex. Kill 'em or cure 'em.

Anyway, this morning Cody’s clinic is temporarily closed except for one very special client. He’s being as kind and patient with Tomo as anyone could be, trying to make a game of things while watching closely to see if he can determine how much Tomo is able to follow what’s going on.

Meanwhile, Matt is seated on a chair nearby, anxiously keeping an eye on the proceedings.

I notice there’s a child’s cloth doll on the supply table next to them, and before Cody tries to take Tomo’s pulse, he quietly lifts the toys’ limp arm to demonstrate what he wants to do.

"Oh, that’s interesting, where did you find that?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Tomo found him," Matt coughs hesitantly. "Remember when Lacey lost her doll?"

"That’s ‘Wayward Roger’?"

Matt nods. "Don’t leave home without him."

Oh-h-h…

However, something about the way Cody is pinching Roger’s floppy wrist between his thumb and forefinger must be upsetting Tomo, because all of a sudden our broken angel grabs on to his little stuffed friend and tugs for all he’s worth.

"It’s okay!" Matt leaps forward to quell his struggling.

‘Here, Cody," I offer, thrusting my arm in front of them. "Take my pulse. Tomo, look." Matt’s got one hand on Tomo’s shoulder, and with the other he’s anxiously petting his hair. "It doesn’t hurt, babe. No one’s getting hurt."

I watch Tomo’s normally wandering eyes lock onto my wrist in fascination. He’s completely absorbed by whatever it is he thinks he’s witnessing there, even if he doesn’t have a clue. For once, at least, we can all be absolutely certain he’s paying close attention to what we’re showing him.

"There are some things about Tomo’s situation that would make a thorough examination advisable, but it’s very problematic," Cody confides softly. "And Roger, as it turns out, is anatomically correct. Which could have its uses." He flashes his subdued grin at me implying that, theoretically, Roger represents a novel option for communicating with Tomo about the more delicate aspects of physical exams.

"Really?" I don’t know why the thought of an anatomical Roger amuses me so much, but immediately, I start snickering like a four-year-old. Cody releases my wrist and reaches gently for Tomo’s. I glance over at Matt who’s settling back in his chair, and for some reason, he seems to be avoiding my gaze. "Well, I’m anatomically correct, too," I offer selflessly. "So, if Tomo doesn’t like you fondling poor Roger, you could always demonstrate on me."

I think I hear Matt making a vaguely disgusted noise.

"Thanks, Jared, but I’m afraid that would be entirely inappropriate," Cody admonishes me with a smirk.

"I know." I smile back.

Cody, of course, doesn’t rise to the bait. That’s one of the things I like about him. "I am your _healthcare_ professional," he reminds me coolly, feigning ruffled dignity. He lets go of Tomo’s wrist, and then holds up a stethoscope for his inspection.

"Well, for the record? I liked you better as my driver," I inform him. "You had style, you had a certain panache… you had," I pause to draw a dramatic breath, "sparkly silver buttons."

Matt’s uncontrollable cackling fills the air all around us, and I note his mood has suddenly lightened considerably.

Even Cody’s smile is threatening to escape his iron control. "It was the uniform, huh?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Well," Cody responds smoothly, reaching to unbutton Tomo’s shirt, "for the record, I now have a plethora of shiny silver medical instruments." His voice sing-songs amiably. "Which I can readily put to use invading your personal space." When he glances up his eyes are twinkling at me deviously. "But not in the sense that you would enjoy it. So watch yourself."

"Oh-ho-ho," Matt chortles. "You have no idea what he might enjoy."

"Shannon," I call into the hanger-like space of the barn. "Do you think if you ask Frank really politely, he might be able to get Cody some five-point leather restraints? For medical purposes, of course."

"Already got ’em," Shannon deadpans, sticking his head around the screen, "but now you’ve spoiled the surprise. I was saving them for your birthday."

Finally, Cody’s attempt at maintaining his sober demeanor unravels. He laughs out loud and shakes his head at us. "I am not hearing this," he says.

"You’da heard lots worse if you’d kept driving bus for us, instead of us all ending up here," Shannon advises him cheerfully.

Spoken like the truth, I’m afraid. Life on the road was always such a boundariless existence, a kind of lawless space in between. And the Swallows, much to my surprise, is turning out to be a very middle American place. The social circle Shannon and I were never part of. At least, never for very long. Maybe you’d think the Crisis would have put an end to all that, but oddly enough, no.

I watch as, with grave industry, Tomo begins pulling off Roger’s t-shirt so he can get the stethoscope treatment, too. Whatever uneasiness he first felt about being examined seems to have passed. Cody shoos us out of the tiny cubicle in order to actually be able to hear the chest sounds he’s trying to listen for. We don’t go far, though, just in case.

"Speaking of Frank," I venture carefully. "Either of you have any further thoughts on that little town of dead people we stumbled on just north of here?" Everywhere I look, guitar cases, drums, and the band’s old stage production equipment are spread out across the barn floor in sections. All neatly organized with narrow footpaths winding between the designated rows.

"You don’t know for sure Frank had anything to do with that," my brother points out.

"And you don’t know that he didn’t either," Matt responds.

"True enough," I concede to both of them. "But there’s a third possibility."

"Which is?" Matt asks.

"It could have been the Guard, alright, but Frank may not have had anything to do with it," I’d been thinking about Grand Master Washington again, and those Continental renegades in Philadelphia. "What if, in all this scarcity and confusion, Frank doesn’t have absolute control over all his own men?"

They were both silent for a minute. "That might explain the presence of the Army at the route 108 roadblock," Matt muses, nodding. "Frank could have sent for them himself."

"Especially if he thought an internal investigation might turn into a cover up," I add. "Or, be too dangerous."

"Wait," says Shannon in mild alarm. "This means we’re gonna start trusting Frank all of a sudden? Just like that?"

"No," replies Matt judiciously. "We’re just… reconsidering him in a new light."

For a moment, my brother looks really unhappy about that, but then he goes, "Well, okay, then here’s another thing. That time when Jared and I took a meeting with Frank on our bus? Tomo was there, too, and after we got through the dicey part of the introductions, he never once acted like he was afraid of Frank. Or his escort, or anything."

I’m a little confused by Shannon’s logic, but I think what he’s trying to say is, that if Tomo had ever run into Frank or the Guard before, like during the period of his disappearance -- if, for example, Grayson et al had been making a habit of preying on the innocent public and Tomo knew it -- there might have been a lot more acting out from our former guitarist at that meet ’n’ greet. Normally, I'm the one who's pointing out it's a bit of a leap to get from our suspicions about the Guard troops in those early days of looting and shooting to the murder of an entire community of people. Especially without a scrap of proof, but on the other hand, it’s not as if we haven’t entertained the thought on occasion.

Still, it’s also possible my brother is simply comparing Tomo to some kind of human Geiger counter with an instinct for detecting evil. After all, this is Shannon we’re talking about.

"And the truth is, we don’t actually know why those people were killed." Matt interrupts my thoughts with another point of conjecture. "If we did, that might tell us something, too. But, as they say, dead men tell no tales." His eyebrows knit close, and he looks at us both with a tight, humorless grin.

Too true. Therefore, this is one case I most certainly do not want my camp constable poking around in, and I’m quick to tell him so.

"No problem," Matt assures me.

Tomo emerges from Cody’s lair looking mildly disheveled, but emotionally unscathed. Nevertheless, he heads straight for Matt and clings like a kid who’s just survived his first day at kindergarten. Matt holds him and murmurs words of praise and comfort, though after a minute, I can readily see this has nothing to do with Tomo’s abandonment issues. He’s expecting a reward, and he’s milking Matthew’s sympathies in order to get it. Is this the system my former bassist has been using to get Tomo through his activities of daily living? Bribery?

Without hesitation, Tomo starts urging his protector over towards Ray’s tool bench with all its alluring treasures and forbidden toys.

"Oh, I don’t know…" Matt waffles.

In response to Matt’s reticence, Tomo whines. He fucking _whines_. Or at least to me it sounds like whining, and damned if it doesn’t work for him, too. The next thing I know, his eager hands are wrapped around one huge freaking pair of wire-cutters and I’m just praying none of Matt’s fingers get caught in there somehow.

"I told him yesterday he couldn't have them." My brother is standing by my shoulder, whispering in my ear.

"Determined, isn't he?" I respond, watching as Matt patiently exchanges the wire-cutters for a ring of old skeleton keys hung on the nearby pegboard, another marvel Tomo greets with enthusiasm.

His fingers tremble with wonderlust as they awkwardly grasp next for a hacksaw. Cautiously, Matt places his own hand over Tomo's less steady one, guiding and protecting him. Alert for any signs of trouble the whole time. I’m curious. What is it Tomo sees in Ray’s mundane collection of tools and scraps? Potentials, I imagine. Something like his trowel and his markers. It’s funny, I’m thinking, how frightened he can be of a sudden unexpected noise, and yet look at how fearlessly he grabs for those strange and delightful unidentified mechanical objects.

Probably for that reason, I find myself remembering Tomo in the recording studio, clever and precise enough to try building any components that could not be bought to meet his specifications. And that’s not even mentioning the first, very cocky, very self-assured audition we got from him before making him a part of the band. And a part of my life.

Inconveniently, it seems this small, practically inconsequential moment I’ve witnessed has released a whole torent of memories that begin tugging at the most vulnerable places in my heart.

None of which changes a damn thing about the facts, or the damage that’s been done and what’s gone now. Or, this overwhelming need I feel. All I want more than anything is for Tomo to come back to me. All of him.

I was the one that let him go. I was the one who let him leave that night. I sent him away on that mission, and while he was gone nearly everything he was and everything we were together slipped away. And ever since then, the whole world has kept right on spiraling out of control. Why, or how, I don’t think I’ll ever know.

I do know a part of my soul went with him that night, and clings to him still. I hear its inconsolable echo in that merciless silence of his, full of his darkness and private pain. And maybe even in the bits of wonder he shares with us these days. It holds fast, sealed away somewhere within him in a moment full of secrets, hushed and hidden; anger, sorrow, torment, hope. And there it remains, prisoner of a heart steadfast and determined. My ragged warrior, now returned to his brothers, wounded and weary, just waiting to be set free.

\---------

A short while later, we were all still standing around in the barn together. Matt and Tomo, Mike and Jeff, me and Shannon, surrounded by the copious debris of our previous lives in rock ’n’ roll. Mike was practically ecstatic to find himself helping Shannon assemble his kit once more, like a man who’d miraculously rediscovered his purpose in life. I guess toting a carbine and breaking into vacant houses wasn’t exactly the transitional career Mike had been imagining for himself. Jeff, meanwhile, had been inspecting what little there was of the stage equipment we’d ever invested in for ourselves, and pronounced it a lot less than what we were going to need for a night concert. If it hadn’t actually hit home with me before, I suddenly understood now that these guys meant business. My brother had been trying to question me about things like set lists all afternoon, and his fuse was starting to get short because, so far, I’d given him nothing but non-answers.

"I’ve decided not to do it," I finally told him.

"Jared," Shannon huffed at me with an edgy, desperate-sounding laugh. "You have to. Obviously Tomo’s not playing. We’re short one guitar already."

"Logan can cover for Tomo." He’d like that. He could show off for Ray, and prove he was good at something besides screwing up with a gun.

"Okay, that’ll work," Shannon grudged. "But what do we do about vocals?"

"I’m sure there are people here who can sing. And Jack plays, too, don’t forget."

Something crackled in the air between my brother and me. Almost imperceptibly I thought I saw Mike wince and his spine stiffen. I’d spoken softly enough, but "Oh, great," my brother threw at me in disgust. "So it’s gonna be, like, Thirty Seconds to Mars karaoke night." His dander was definitely coming up.

Yeah, well, my temper was rising, too, because there’s nothing I hate more than being shoved into a corner, and told what I ‘have to’ do.

"Jesus Christ, Shannon, and just what the fuck do you suggest I sing? Has anybody thought about that?" I wasn't watching my tone or my voice volume now. In fact, with each rhetorical question, I was inching closer to outright yelling. "I mean, how about ‘Was It A Dream?’ Or, maybe ‘Year Zero’? _‘Is anybody alive here across the line?’_ Even think about that?" A breath-holding silence followed my outburst and the sound of my voice left a ringing echo under the canopy of the barn’s roof.

I thought my irritation had made my message plain enough. I was not about to suffer arguments. As it turned out, Shannon didn’t really have a verbal response for me anyway, so the next thing I knew a socket wrench went flying through the air and hit the back wall where it impacted with a small, meteoric explosion. As you might have guessed, Tomo was on his feet clutching at me in less time than it takes for light to travel.

"Hush now. We’re all fine," I murmured, wrapping him protectively in my embrace and turning away from my brother. "And who’s going to watch Tomo while Matt’s playing Guitar Hero?" I asked over my shoulder, knowing how bitter I sounded, I just didn’t particularly care at that moment. Tomo squirmed and muttered incoherently against the side of my neck. I shushed him gently. "Well," I continued quietly, answering my own question, "I guess I will." Then, I looked up, certain that the expression on my face would strongly challenge anyone’s presumption that I could be persuaded differently.

It was a wasted effort. Shannon wouldn’t even look at me.

So much for getting back the old passions. We’re still just as passionate as ever, but not, it would seem, about the same things. Goodbye, modern myth. Welcome to the new normal.

 

\---------

038/00

Alpha

Ever seen a grown man throw a temper tantrum? A screaming, thrashing, wall bashing, skull cracking, physical fit of pent up rage and emotion?

Tomo’s been coming along really well over these last few weeks in terms of his ability to relate to us. Thanks to Roger, he let Cody give him a slightly more than routine check-up, and he eats his meals with utensils now. But he’s still prone to extremes of withdrawal at times. Take that incident with the hunting rifle up at the farm last week, or the other day when he overreacted to me arguing with Shannon.

After thinking about exactly how that works for him, it seems to me that any time Tomo gets overwhelmed by conflicting impulses or feelings -- like fear and anger at the same time -- that’s when he's most likely to have a meltdown. He’ll just mentally close up shop and go into a kind of catatonic stillness sometimes, and no one can get through to him at all after that.

Today I told him "no." No, you may not have the gun hidden above the cabinets in our tiny kitchen. I don’t even know how you found out it was there.

It’s not loaded. I hide the ammunition somewhere else. Nevertheless.

I would not of my own choice keep a gun on the bus except that the others have insisted on it. I hate the thing, personally. No object on earth is more capable of haunting my nightmares. I hate the fact that people will put their confidence in any such instrument, but I have agreed to keep it as a kind of talisman against evil, because otherwise I will make them all afraid for me and my safety.

So, Tomo, you may have your sketchbook and your markers. Your pencils, your rock collection, my tired, worthless old Blackberry that will still chime at you cheerfully -- and, look, babe -- here’s your afternoon snack. You may empty out the contents of my desk drawers and files in search of building materials for one of those grand new cities you like to create right here in the middle of my office floor. But you may not have the gun. It is not a toy.

No, Tomo, you may not have it.

He’s howling. All at once his fists are battering at the cupboard doors and counter top, and his feet are kicking and stamping on the floor. He slams his head against the closed cabinet in frustration, again and again. And he wails at the top of his lungs. After weeks of his protracted silences, the fearful sound that’s rising out of him tears at the air like a physical pain. One of agony and anger that I think, surely, they must be able to hear in every corner of the compound. I’m quick to grab for him, and yell at him to "Stop!" but he lunges back at me, then he shoves me off with all his might. For a split second before he releases me, I feel a sudden stab of fear. In the heat of his fury he is too strong, and I start to panic with the knowledge that his rage is something beyond my control.

That’s when Matt appears, almost miraculously, leaping up the bus stairs by twos. It’s clear, however, his day has already gone on too long and worn him thin, because the look on his face says he’s on his last nerve. As soon as he sees me and my obvious state of alarm, I know in an instant he’s ready to confront violence with violence. Even his eyes are hard. A sight so uncharacteristic it undoes me, and all I can do is stare.

Don’t ask me for the exact moment when Shannon arrived on the scene, I don't know, but suddenly I’m fuzzily aware of him, too, standing there watching from the bus doorway.

Instantly, Matt starts yelling, "No!" which only serves to scare the hell out of all of us even more. He pushes himself forward with a visceral intensity I might find thrilling under other circumstances, but not now. Not when he's that angry and about to lay hands on Tomo. I just want him to stop. Stop, right there, before it’s too… that's when I feel something brittle inside me snap. I don't know what, exactly, but maybe I just can't take anymore. I usually think of my limits as something to be overcome, but it's possible today I've finally reached the end; it's too much, my point of no return. Suddenly, I've got this strange case of tunnel vision going on and I'd swear I'm about to faint again except I'm too damn stubborn, and too afraid of what's about to happen next. Unfortunately, it’s like I’ve been thrust somewhere outside myself. The events around me take on a brilliant, hard-edged clarity and begin playing out in dreadful, inescapable slow-motion. And I can’t get a word out of my mouth.

Tomo has seen the look on Matt’s face and it’s having more than the desired deterent effect. He freezes. In less than a heartbeat, all the anger and yelling has melted away into anxiety and a thin wail of despair. I know instantly from the sound this is something that goes beyond even Tomo’s ordinary apprehensions and uncertainties. I watch as his eyes begin working furiously while he stares blindly passed us and into some internal void.

I don’t have any idea what’s actually happening inside his head, though, other than what I'm able to sense about Tomo’s nearly palpable fear. I suspect some fragment of memory must be replaying itself in there. Whether from a moment in his youth or childhood, or some more recent horror, there’s no way to tell. One thing is certain, Tomo is terrified. I can’t tear my gaze away from his eyes. The proverbial windows to his soul, they’re like little rents that keep opening up wider and wider in the fabric of an unbearable event. As Matt continues to advance on us, Tomo’s panic keeps escalating steadily. By now, my empathy with him has completely overruled my momentary fright. But, I still can’t move.

With shaking hands, Tomo frantically grasps at the front of his jeans and undoes his button and fly. I stare, immobilized by shock and fascination as he does this while lurching unsteadily on his feet. Seconds later, he begins pushing down on his waistband, panicky fingers dragging clumsily at the stiff denim as he tries to pull everything, underwear and all, below his hips. Then he drops to his knees and lowers his head, body rocking fitfully with his harsh, shallow gasps for breath. It’s the only sound I can hear against the stunned stillness that surrounds us. And there he remains, crouched in a shivering, servile demonstration of obedience and submission, lying on the floor at Matthew’s feet.

I’ve rarely been at a loss for words in my life. Ask anybody who knows me, they’ll tell you, but this is one of those times… I am… I don’t completely understand, but… that is, I don’t think any of us thought… that Tomo was expecting a beating, but…

Nor do I honestly know for certain _what_ just happened, but I’m guessing that for one fleeting moment a tiny crack in the walls Tomo’s fractured existence finally opened, and a tiny sliver of light poured in. Revealing exactly what, though, is hard to say. Something that was never meant to see daylight, perhaps. An instant of his personal history, maybe. Or, what it was like for those seventeen days while he was separated from us. Maybe it’s the last thing he remembers from just before his world suddenly went blank. I don’t know, it's all a guess. But, either way, I find myself thinking, yes, yes indeed -- here is one very powerful argument for the gun.

As I stand by, dumbfounded, Matt grabs Tomo up and hauls him to his feet. I see Shannon hovering in the background. His agitation is barely restrained, and his face contorts with the kind of inexpressible emotions I know must be churning inside of him right now. All the while, Matt is tugging and tucking Tomo back into his clothes and saying, "no, no, no…" in a choked whisper. His outrage has dissolved into anguish, and he clutches our former band brother close, like a lover. Desperately, his hands keep running over and over him in an endless series of fervent caresses.

I can't recall how or when I start to move again, but I find myself clinging tightly to both of them. And then Shannon collapses against the back of Matt’s shoulder with his arms stretched out around the three of us, and his fingers are straining to contain as much as he can possibly reach.

I wonder how much longer my brother will keep trying to do that, you know? Keep struggling the way he does to close the circle around us before the day finally comes when everything flies apart, once and for all and for good.

\--stop--


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Five "Perfect Denial"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* Matt may feel like he’s struggling along blind in his own situation, but that doesn’t seem to interfere with his ability to see the big picture. While Jared, too, is finally seeing at least one thing more clearly.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.

\--------- * --------- * ---------  
"What if I wanted  
to break?  
  
…what would you do?"  
\--------- * --------- * ---------

　

040/00

Gamma

I startled awake to a pair of watery, hazel, four-year-old eyes staring at me from very close range and a miniature set of fingers clenched in the bed sheets just inches from my face.

"Mommy’s gone." Noah’s lip was quivering.

"What?" I jolted from unconsciousness to Defcon One in something like under an instant. Yeah, constantly living on the knife edge of oblivion will help you sharpen those kinds of reflexes. It took my brain a second longer, though, to quit fumbling with the fact that a pre-schooler was standing right next to the bed where Tomo and I had just had sex a few hours ago, and we were both still kinda sticky.

"How’d you get in here?" slipped out before I noticed the motel master key he had clutched in his hands. Oh, well. Very resourceful. His immaculately clean little hands, I should add, with neatly trimmed nails. Sarah’s attention to her kids is never anything short of meticulous. She’s definitely not the type to go wandering off and leave them unattended. So where the hell was she? What was going on?

"Where’s Toby," I scowled, sitting up and throwing my legs over the side of the bed. Jesus, I was naked. My temples throbbed with the sudden effect of being upright and the burn from that first waking shot of adrenalin still pulsing through my veins. "Where’s your brother?" First things first, I told myself. Self-consciously, I stuffed a wad of semi-clean bedclothes into my crotch, hiding my junk. Behind me Tomo stirred and snuffled into his pillow.

"Sleeping."

"Home? In his crib?" What time was it anyway? Where were my jeans? They should have been right there on the floor next to my boots, ready to pull on and go. The stark red glow of the clock read 5:09 a.m.

"Yeah," Noah answered. A small, wet cough gave away his brave struggle against impending tears.

"Okay, buddy," I said while groping around for the night before’s hastily discarded clothes. I was starting to recall that, at the time, I’d had help losing them and been more than a little distracted. That's when, at last, I spied my pants tossed carelessly over the end of the dresser. Finally, awkwardly, I decided to let the sheet slip, thinking, what’s the big deal? I mean, surely the kid’s seen a grown man undressed before, right? Probably?

Probably Jared, now that I was thinking about it. I mean, Jesus fucking christ...

And I wondered, not for the first time, what had become of Sarah’s husband.

"You go back to your place and hang out with Toby, and… uh, I’ll be right there."

"Okay. Then we’ll go look for Mommy?" Noah's brow was puckered with distress.

"Yeah," Cripes, what if it turned out she was on the bus with… oh, shit. "But first," I stuttered, "we gotta look for clues." No, no that thing with Jared and Sarah was definitely over. As in, over Shannon’s dead body when it had finally come down to it. And there was no getting around that fact.

Noah’s face lit up a little at the mention of "clues." I admit, I was winging it, but Sarah had once told me a good way to help a kid cope with his fears was to give him a sense of control over the fearful situation, and turns out it was good advice. I watched her son take off down the portico with a renewed air of determination and purpose. Deputy Inspector Noah Gamble was on the case.

"C’mon, Little Bear," I turned to Tomo, rubbing a hand briskly across his back and thumping his shoulder impatiently. "Rise and shine." Gently, my fingers trailed over his head and swept some of the long strands of dark hair back from his face.

He blinked up at me clear-eyed, as if he’d been lying in bed awake all along, but with his eyes closed, and for once I saw genuine recognition reflected there. Expectation, too. A small smile began transforming his mouth into an expression of something coy and intimate, like knowing.

"Later," I mumbled under my breath, responding to my assumption about whatever secret thoughts he might have been thinking. Beneath my ribs, I could feel a slightly more acute than normal mixture of my ever-present impulse for guilt and tenderness twisting itself into a tight, troubled knot. "We need to go look for Sarah. Now, hurry up."

He kicked at the bedclothes and scrambled to a sitting position while I grabbed for a clean pair of pants and t-shirt to dress him in. The unfamiliar sensation of his rapt attention was following me all around the room. Without returning his gaze, I tugged the shirt on over his head, shoving arms into the arm holes and wrestling with the sleeves. Suddenly, one of his hands popped out and reached up to brush softly and hesitantly against my cheek.

I snapped my head back a little too quickly, jerking away from his touch. I didn’t mean to. He just caught me off guard. Instantly, Tomo’s hand froze in mid-motion and stuttered to an uncertain halt. Stillness and anxiety quickly replaced the unguarded confidence he’d been displaying just moments ago. "It's okay," I mumbled my endless litany, and reached for his hand. Guiltily, I held it to the side of my face and patted it gently. He's so fragile, and I'm always in such a hurry, knowing this world and its next tragedy won't wait.

Today it's Sarah, and Noah and Toby, and this cannot wait.

My eyes slid off to the side lingering around our room’s scuffed and weather-beaten doorframe, then moved on restlessly to the dresser that had once imprisoned Roger, and lastly, the chairback where Tomo's well-worn jeans had hung enshrined for weeks after he disappeared. I don’t really know what I was looking at, actually. Because the thing was, for a second, for one long excruciatingly drawn out moment, I couldn’t bear to look at him. Not directly at Tomo, not right then. After everything that had happened between us the night before I had nothing left to give him, and there was the truth of the matter. I felt trapped. I felt as if my lungs had seized up inside my chest. They fucking _hurt_ and I couldn’t breathe.

"I know, babe," I whispered. "I know. Just, not now." The words faded in my throat.

I take care of him. All the time when I’m here at the compound, and even when I’m not my thoughts are constantly consumed with worry about him -- is he alright? Every waking minute of my day, and sleeping, too. We’re never apart for very long. I want him to get better, I do. It’s just that sometimes, sometimes…

I can’t do this.

Then, I’ll forget about him for a little while, only a moment maybe. Something else will happen during my day demanding all of my attention, like now. Like this thing with Sarah. And for a few blessed seconds my uncensored relief at being out from under the unbearable, crushing weight of needing to be constantly vigilant for Tomo. Even if it’s a lapse of attention that only lasts for a minute…

I’m going to lose him that way someday. I know it. To some momentary, undisciplined break in my concentration. I’ll be out on the road somewhere away from the compound, contending with other things. Or just trying to stay alive, and when I finally remember to think about him again, and about home, it’ll be too late. It will all be gone.

It's an irrational fantasy I have all the time that's never actually happening, but it could be, much too easily, so that's not exactly an obsession, right? It's all too possible and real.

This is my life now. My goddamn fucking life. I mean, look at it. It’s guns and death, and questions without answers, hunger and thirst, and all this wretched brokenness. Stolen intimacies, and more kinds of desperation and darkness than I ever knew existed. This is everything I know, the light and the dark. It’s all there is.

But, I get out of bed every morning and suck it up like everyone else.

When at last I managed to collect myself enough to turn back and face Tomo, I spied Roger’s cold, glassy eyes staring up at me accusingly from where he lay tossed among the blankets.

And this is exactly what I mean. Some days, just this -- the doll and that look -- is all I can see. Like, it's the only switch in my brain still in the "on" position, and everything else is silence.

Would somebody please explain to me exactly how the fuck I ended up here? How we all ended up here? Using very small words, thank you, and plain, simple English. And then, if you’d be so kind, point me in the direction of the nearest exit? Sometimes I think the lucky ones are the people who are already dead.

\---------

I hustled Tomo down to the Guardhouse intending to leave him there safe with Will and a bowl of Sugar Frosted Flakes. On the way, I visually scanned the parking lot and, sure enough, the space normally occupied by Sarah’s aging Mazda was empty.

"Did you see her leave?"

"Yeah, ‘bout half an hour ago," Will reckoned, without even the slightest suggestion he’d witnessed anything out of the ordinary.

"You talk to her?"

"Uh-uh. Just a wave." He was on his feet, rifle slung loosely over one shoulder and hand gun parts spread out across the nearby table. The room was rank with the heavy smell of gun oil and really wretched coffee. Used grounds, no doubt, probably cut with some kind of nasty substitute we were shifting with these days. Tomo padded around cautiously, taking in the sight. From the look on his face, I was guessing if he’d considered indulging in his gun phobia already this morning, he must have decided it could at least wait until after breakfast.

"She done this before? That you know of?" I continued grilling Will a little more forcefully.

He shook his head and narrowed his eyes at me.

"Was she _alone?_ " The instant the words were out of my mouth Will’s eyes opened up again, sort of unnecessarily wide. Suddenly, even I thought maybe I sounded a little over-involved with Sarah's comings and goings. But, I think it was mostly my tone. Hey, I'm just trying to keep everyone safe, I'm _concerned_. She's missing. Even her kids don't know where she is. I thought about explaining myself. It felt realy weird, like, by inference I’d made some kind of groundless accusation. I wasn’t sure why, though. Definitely it was the right question to ask under the circumstance.

"No, Cassie was with her," he replied cautiously.

Okay, that's good, I thought, not without a small flash of relief. She wasn’t alone, she hadn't gone off with some strange guy, and with Cassie along for the ride she probably wasn't planning a rendezvous... What? Yeah, that was in the back of my mind. 'Cause it's not like that shit never happens, or can't end badly. The other good thing was she hadn’t been gone that long yet. Still, they were two women traveling unescorted and probably unarmed. Maybe unarmed. Definitely something unusual was up. Why didn’t she tell anybody where she was going? And what she was doing? And why did she leave her kids on their own?

"Alright. I want you to keep Tomo for me."

Naturally, of all mornings, this was the one Tomo had chosen to be lucid, alert, and responsive to the situation around him. He was not about to be left behind with Will. No sir, no way. He was coming with me, he was quite certain of it.

Fine.

I wasted about a minute trying to dissuade him, and gave up. Because Noah was still home alone with Toby, and anyone who thinks it’s a good idea leaving a four-year-old by himself to watch over his two-year-old brother should probably double check that assumption with Shannon. Man, has he got stories.

No sooner had we got down to the motel office, than Noah was dragging me in back towards their neat, blue and white tiled kitchen.

"Look." He pointed triumphantly. "It’s a clue." Sarah’s unwashed mug was sitting in the bottom of an otherwise spotlessly clean sink. So, she hadn’t exactly driven off in a fit of haste either. She’d had time for a hot cup of tea. I turned around in time to see Tomo heading up the stairs. "Wait," I called after him. "Tomo, c’mere!"

"I’m hungry," Noah announced. Boy after my own heart. "Can we have breakfast?"

"Uh, sure," I answered distractedly. " _Tomo?!_ " He was ignoring me, the li’l bastard. What the heck had gotten into him today?

Right about then, Sarah strolled in through her back door.

"Hey," she sighed breezily and smiled, casually dropping her car keys on the kitchen table.

 _"Where the hell have you been?!"_ I barked. I couldn't help myself.

"Good morning to you, too, Mr. Wachter," she smirked. "Want to help me unload the car? And I need someone to open up the diner for me."

She looked good. Khaki shorts and a green scarf over her hair, tanned, rested and relaxed, unlike me. Without my morning shower, I was instantly self-conscious about the coating of yesterday’s road grime I was still wearing, not to mention God knows whatever else.

"There should be somebody over there already," I said, about Mugs.

"Well, there isn’t. We checked." Sarah shrugged.

Oh, shit. That’s because it was supposed to be me. I forgot. I don’t get stuck with k.p. that often anymore. But, I wasn’t about to tell her that. Besides, what about her kids? I may have forgotten about the diner, but hadn’t she overlooked something even more important?

"Alright," I mumbled. "I think I can help you with that."

Noah, meanwhile, his fears instantly forgotten with the timely return of his mother, was still clamoring for food. Briefly, he and Sarah got into a debate over whether or not he was willing to settle for yogurt and honey, with a counter-offer of oatmeal and jam. Yeah, Sarah cultures her own yogurt. She’s pretty amazing.

Right about then, Tomo reappeared carrying Toby, a sight that gave me a moment’s pause when I realized the baby had been changed out of his sleeper and overnights, and dressed in play clothes. Exactly like what we’d been practicing with Roger every morning, role-playing at nurturing vs. torturing, or whatever it was Tomo had been doing with Roger in the beginning. Well, that was interesting. And probably good -- and God, sometimes I really wish I knew what was going on inside that head of his, you know? So I'd have some idea what I was in the middle of. Just a clue. Toby, for his part, seemed to be perfectly content, squalling and squirming in Tomo's arms while straining to reach the treat jar on the kitchen counter.

Toby talks when he wants to, he’s capable, but not when he thinks raising an incoherent ruckus will get him faster service. Which, I admit, sometimes works. But just about then, I caught Tomo peeking over his shoulder at me, stealing a thoughtful glance as if maybe he was contemplating a similar strategy, and also like he was considering the possibility of having Tootsie Rolls for breakfast.

No. Just…

"I have four cases of oranges and two of grapefruits in the back of my car, and I filled an empty fifty pound rice sack with bananas. They’re a little bruised, that’s why he let me have them."

My attention snapped back to Sarah again. You have what? Seriously?

" _‘He’_ who?" So, she was meeting up with some guy?

Um, that was not the question I’d expected to hear coming out of my mouth. At least, not the first question.

"He, the man driving the rig." She was moving towards the back door, flicking a stray curl of hair over her shoulder. "I suppose we can use the really smooshy ones for baking or something."

I followed after her like there was an invisible leash stretched between us. Through the screen door, I could see Cassie standing by the car waiting in the parking lot. Behind me Toby screeched in protest at his mother’s disappearance, and Tomo stuffed an oatmeal cookie in his mouth. Then, took one for himself. Hey, now where the hell did he find those?

Okay, stop, I ordered myself. It was just one cookie each, and all in all, I supposed it was prudent to not obsess over the little things that were out of my control in favor of focusing on the bigger ones... that were also out of my control this morning, apparently.

Then somehow, effortlessly, with her limitless charm and a will of pure steel, Sarah cajoled and maneuvered our entire two-family circus across the street to Mugs.

While we were stowing away the fair-gotten-gains over at the diner, and belatedly firing up the grills for breakfast, here’s what the ladies told me.

Late last night, well after dark, Paulie Westfall had risked a quick trip up to the Swallow’s to let Sarah know there was an eighteen-wheeler scheduled to make a fuel stop at their station the next morning around 4:30 a.m. In these days of strict rationing and fuel restrictions, truckers need a special diesel purchasing license and an appointment in order to pull up to Trev's pumps and say, "fill ’er up, son." Because just one of those big rigs alone can take on about 300 gallons, so the guy had called ahead.

The first person Trev Westfall contacted was Colonel Grayson, naturally, to make sure he’d have enough diesel to cover the requisition. Then, unable to get a second call through to the Swallows, Paulie set off to tell Sarah in person.

Because the way these things work, in addition to whatever appears on his manifest, a long-haul trucker will always be carrying a little something extra to make trades with on the side, anywhere he stops along his route.

And may I just add a note that, given the way the restored phone service has been set-up here, it shouldn’t have surprised anyone how, less than a minute after the Westfall’s contacted Frank, ours quit working.

"We don’t have enough flour for banana bread," Sarah said pensively, interrupting her narrative while sorting out the bruised and overripe fruit from the firm.

"How about banana rice pudding?" suggested Cassie.

"Does it take eggs?"

"No. Milk. And rice. And lots of sugar."

"That we have," Sarah replied.

"We have sugar?" I questioned her. Sugar is one of the things that’s been in chronically short supply. "Where did we get sugar?"

"Frank Grayson," Sarah sighed. In the background, Toby shrieked at Tomo, who wasn’t sharing his orange slices fast enough.

I filed that bit of information away without comment, but the troubled tone of Sarah’s voice was not lost on me. Nor was the fact that I was going to have to tell Jared his brother Shannon wasn’t the only weak link Frank had found in his chain of command.

About then, Jack strolled in looking for coffee and whatever other form of fortification we were offering.

"Grits." I told him. Plus the last of our eggs, and a choice of oranges, grapefruit, or bananas.

"Bananas? Really?" His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

Bananas aren’t a native crop here, even in the southern most parts of the US. They have to be imported from Latin America. And for weeks now, the only citrus fruit to be had has been the leftovers from what was in storage on that first day of the Crisis, back before they closed all the borders down. Our next local harvest of California oranges won’t start until late in the fall, and that’s making some pretty broad assumptions about things getting that far. But in places like Brazil this time of the year the fruit is ripe and fresh. Which leads me to the inescapable conclusion that we are, under certain circumstances, transporting produce across the southern border again. Hey, it’s a good, reasonable if unproven guess, but that wasn’t even the best part of Sarah’s story.

While she was dickering jars of her homemade strawberry preserves and pounds of almonds for cases of ruby reds, she also found out there was another tractor trailer pulling into town the day after tomorrow. Nobody knows for certain what it will be hauling, but that’s almost inconsequential compared to the news about the direction it’s traveling -- westbound coming from someplace east of us, across the Nevada state line.

So. It's possible there are still places in the heartland that are capable of producing enough consumer goods to fill a semi truck, or two. And then, after acquiring the necessary rights of border passage, drive them all the way to locations unspecified, someplace south in the state of California.

Which makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s something less -- or perhaps much, much more -- to this whole "Crisis" scenario than we’ve heretofore been led to believe.

\---------

040/00

Alpha

I’m helping Matt clean out the front seat of the Land Rover before he takes me on a scenic drive of our back country, when I accidentally pop open the glove box and, lo and behold, out falls a pink and white box of super absorbency tampons. The eco-friendly kind, the label screams at me, with cardboard applicators.

Well now, this little modern rarity right here would certainly trump all the fuss and bother of your grandmother's method. Nylons and chocolate bars be damned, I’m thinking, and wondering how far up a skirt you can bribe your way these days using this sort of enticement.

"Who left these here?" I snort, only mildly disturbed to discover someone has probably been using our primary security escort vehicle for their own private love buggy.

"Ray."

Ray? Not my first what-the-fuck of the day, but definitely the one that’s produced my most significant silence. Excuse me for asking, but what about Logan?

"Plugs up a bullet wound real nice until you can get to medical help," Matt grunts at me, like I was a kid who hadn’t been paying enough attention in class.

"Oh." Right. That makes a frightening kind of sense now that our 9-1-1 service is strictly do-it-yourself. I forget Matt lives with these concerns on a daily basis. And while Cody’s former life as an EMT may have given him some limited experience with the kind of undeclared urban warfare common on the south side of LA, Ray’s the only one among us who’s actually been through the real deal and knows what it’s like.

"Never had to try it, though, so don’t get yourself shot today, okay?" my former bassist warns me, pulling empty candy wrappers out from under the front seat.

"Do my best."

I’ll admit now when I first met Ray, I was completely wrong about him. I remember our initial informal meeting, coming face to face together over deep-fried fast food at the diner. He’d asked me about Sam and Mikey, and if all the girls who were fans of our band adopted boy names. I’d said, "No," without embellishment, setting my teeth on edge and probably totally misinterpreting the confusion behind the question. I'd looked at Ray and thought I saw someone middle-class and middle-aged being typically judgmental when, in retrospect, it seems more like I was the one making the rush to judgment.

Which, fortunately for us, never stopped Ray from trying to help out in every way he could. He threw his lot in with ours that very first day, unasked and maybe even feeling a little unwelcome, I don’t know. He’s never complained.

No one had to explain to Ray that, out of necessity, our mutual survival here was going to depend on everyone’s ability to pursue it as a communal endeavor. He figured out the chain of command with no prompting on our part, and immediately began taking up the slack.

I guess a career in the army might do that for a man, or maybe it’s something innate Ray brought into this life with him. I’ve often wondered what Ray’s time in the military must have been like for him, except truthfully, in some ways I think I already know -- no doubt, it was a life of loyalty and silence. I imagine there were times when it was like going to hell and back; taking a life or death journey with a band of brothers you trusted for your next breath and probably with your whole heart, but not your deepest secret.

Although he’s drifted more towards Matt and Cody for friendship, Ray’s demeanor with me has always been one of camaraderie and good faith. I think I get it, though, why he sought out Shannon first to talk to about Logan, instead of me. The constraints of a lifetime can be the hardest habits to break.

It occurs to me now, a little late in the game, that whenever Ray looks at my brother and me, he must see something nobody else sees quite so clearly. The way we are, the two of us, together.

Don’t ask; don’t tell.

\---------

040/00

Xi

 

   

 

\--stop--


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Five "Perfect Denial"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* Worlds past and present are still colliding.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.  
> (Drawings, as before, courtesy of MyrJuhl)

\--------- * --------- * ---------  
 _"What if I wanted_  
 _to break?_  
  
 _…what would you do?"_  
\--------- * --------- * ---------

 

040/00

Gamma

Well, for all the stress it caused us, that Fourth of July celebration came and went without much fanfare. Partly because when the planning got right down to the wire, we really didn’t have enough surplus food stores for more than our ordinary daily rations. Early on, it also became apparent we weren’t going to have nearly the right lighting set-up for a night concert, so scratch that. And the only reason we were thinking about a night concert in the first place was for the fireworks, because what’s the Fourth of July without fireworks? And Jared grouching at me about burning my hands?

But, when even Eric couldn’t rustle up a supply of fireworks for us, and after Jared had raised the obvious objection to drawing that much attention to the farm after dark, we reluctantly settled on a scaled down afternoon picnic instead. Then, to top it all off, the day finally dawned on the fourth, and it rained.

Not great thundering buckets of down pour, mind you, but enough to chase away a lot the town's folk and keep most of the tribe indoors. Although, between cloud bursts, we did manage to squeeze in a very muddy seven innings of softball, the Furies versus the Warriors. And later we set up some of our old gear in the shelter of the barn for a few songs.

Shannon didn’t bother with his whole kit. We didn't drag out every pedal and amp we’ve ever owned either, but it was enough. When the sun momentarily obliged us by breaking through the clouds, Eric rolled back the pair of wide side doors that open out on to the driveway, and a small crowd gathered while we sound checked. I noticed Trev and Paulie Westfall were among the few who had braved it up from town and stuck it out for the main event. Under the shade and shelter of some nearby trees, Mikayla was helping paint glyphs on their kids’ faces.

The set list was partly planned and partly spontaneous. Any lack of polish we made up for in enthusiasm. And general giddiness. For example, you haven’t lived until you’ve heard Jack sing, "Maybellene."

We’ve played to smaller crowds before, but probably never to one that needed so badly for us all to be there, together.

One last time, Jack had asked Jared if he was going to join us, and he still said, "no," but he did it politely and discreetly. Then he took Tomo to find a dry spot on the cement floor inside where they could sit close by and watch the band from there, side stage. Jared’s good with Tomo, I have to admit, and fearless even after the scare he gave us the other day. I was the one who was a little nervous at first, trying to keep half an eye on the two of them. But they were cute together rocking out with their arms in the air or around one another, clapping hands and playing some kind of rhythm game that, swear to God, looked for all the world like a very involved, slightly X-rated version of patty-cake. Ha-ha. Only Jared.

So, they seem to be alright with each other again after whatever that blow-up of Tomo’s was about. To tell the truth, as much as I worry about Tomo -- and I do, a lot -- he’s actually not the one I’m afraid is coming apart at the seams right now.

It’s Shannon.  
  
  
\---------  
  
040/00

Beta

I like to write. Although, you wouldn’t think so from the way I’ve been keeping this journal recently. Or not keeping it, more realistically. To be honest, there was a time in my life when reading and writing were not the things I did best. And that was fine by me. I didn’t care. Being lousy at school and not giving a fuck gave a certain distinction to my identity in our household.

Yeah, for a while -- a long, long while -- being the family screw-up and playing drums, beating on things, myself included, was probably what I was most accomplished at. Not that I deliberately set out to ruin my own life and everybody else’s. It’s just, the road to hell, you know?

Last night I found myself thinking about Scranton, Pennsylvania. Why, I couldn’t tell you, except for the fact that it was raining outside. Which is kind of unusual in this place, the exception to the rule. To me, Scranton was never anything more than too long a moment in a crummy bus station years and years ago, but maybe because last night it was raining out and it doesn’t rain here that much, and the evening was cool. Not really cold, exactly. But between the smell of the wet blacktop and the chill in the air… suddenly, I was back on the other side of the country and it was 1990 all over again.

I’ve always had a hard time letting someone else be in the driver’s seat, but that winter I didn’t have a choice.

When we pulled onto the lot in front of the Greyhound bus station it was already late, and several hours past sunset. A sparse, icy December drizzle was clinging to the passenger window by my face. I’d been sleeping in my seat, but the twist and cramp in my neck had kept it from being a sound sleep, so I was feeling groggy and restless both at the same time when my eyes opened.

We had a lay-over in Scranton long enough to have a burger and some tasteless fries in the shabby, colorless dinette. Make a pit stop in the men’s room, and check out the magazine stand. Buy a pack of cigarettes and some Tastykake fruit pies for the road. Then, on to Philadelphia. And Jared.

Not exactly the way I’d pictured myself spending my Christmas vacation, but two weeks earlier I’d gotten a slightly overwrought call from our mom, "Jared’s not coming home for the holidays." And, as much of an FYI and casual comment as she’d tried to make it sound, sure as God made rain, I heard the vaguely accusatory unspoken question in the silence that followed from her end of the line. "What have you done now?" Because I _was_ planning on being there, and he knew it.

She told me that Jared had elected to stay on at his apartment in the city instead, and to keep working at his part time job rather than head for home like all the other college students. He was making good money, he’d said, and would need it for next semester. The cost of art supplies and all. Everything not covered by his scholarship.

Which was plausible in a way. A short, well crafted and simple explanation, and definitely one of the more beautiful lies Jared’s ever told mom in his life, but clearly not the truth. Without a doubt I knew something was just… wrong. I wasn’t sure why, though. Or, I should say, why _exactly_.

Because, see, by then I had been gone myself for quite a while. Long enough to be decidedly short on any specific recent details. I could sort of guess what it had to do with, probably, but it was not a particularly well-informed guess. So, I sold my truck, which I’d been pretty sure was not up to a long, cross-country trek anyway, bought my bus ticket and set off to find out what the fuck was going on with my brother. This time.

Only in my gut, I knew perfectly well what was going on. It was the same shit that had been going on between us for years. The same shit that had been keeping me at the opposite end of the map from the rest of my family members since… Since the day I left. Just walked out and disappeared. Oh, I’d made the effort to stay in touch. Just, not too much.

I trudged down the bus stairs, in line with my fellow travelers, rolling my tight shoulders. I could already tell they were going to be stiff for a week. A quick glance at my surroundings proved depressing. Overhead, the parking lot lights spilled down harshly across the front of the bus station building, decades old, an industrial brick box with a scarred exterior crumbling from years of acid rain exposure. Dampness and a cold wind were biting right through my jacket. I sprinted the short distance to the entrance, a pair of full-pane glass doors streaked with condensation, and hurried inside.

_"Are you reelin’ in the years, stowin’ away the time…"_

Warm, close air, thick with the smell of cooking grease replaced the outside chill. An ancient radio set above one of the dinette’s refrigerated display cases was tuned to a ’60s - ’70s oldies station, probably the only broadcast from anywhere in the country not playing Bing Crosby on repeat that night. ‘Cause the next day was Christmas Eve already.

_"Are you gathering up the tears, have you had enough of mine…"_

Steely Dan. When we were kids growing up, my mom used to listen to his music all the time. Him, and a bunch of others whose songs I know almost by heart like other kids know fairytales.

There was one worn, vinyl stool left vacant at the counter. I slid onto it and the lone, weary waitress still working that night shuffled over doing her best to give me a welcoming smile. "What’ll it be?" she asked, pen and pad at the ready.

"Burger, coffee."

"Cheese on that?"

"No."

"Pickle? Onion?"

"No onion."

The coffee came right away. Strong, fresh, and hot. The burger took a few minutes longer and wasn’t worth the wait. Between two halves of a squashed bun lurked a thin, dry meat patty with a pair of limp pickles on top. Fries and a foil packet of ketchup on the side.

_"Oh very young, what will you leave us this time, they’ll never be a better chance to change your mind…"_

Cat Stevens. Truthfully, I hadn’t spoken directly to Jared in a long time. I’d sort of been getting all the news about him through our mom, and I assumed it worked the same way for him about me. Only, in my case, there wasn’t much news to tell. Nothing like I was going to college or taking painting classes, and pottery, or learning how to make those weird fine-artsy images using just patterns of light to expose photographic paper. Mostly, I’d been kicking around in the southern and mid-western parts of the country working construction here and there.

_"…And the goodbye makes the journey harder still…"_

Lately, though, I’d been up north in Indiana and when the weather turned cold, too cold for framing houses, I started working at a garage -- for a guy who bought up a lot of older cars, but also moved a lot of car parts through his back door, no questions asked. The old car business was the legit one. He’d fix them up just enough to get them running, and then he’d do all the modification for competing in demolition derbies during the summer months. Chevy Caprices, Impalas. You don’t need a certified mechanic for that kind of work, and for my needs right then it suited me fine.

"We got pie for dessert." The waitress was coming my way again, the rubber soles of her shoes squeaked to a halt in front of me. "Or ice cream, just vanilla though. And I think there’s a couple slices of chocolate cake left," she offered half-heartedly.

I shook my head. "Nothing, thanks."

"You sure? You been a good boy, you cleaned your plate. You can have dessert," she encouraged me. I glanced up to see a small smile and a tepid flirt in her eye. She was right about my plate. It was empty. I guess I was hungry since there couldn’t have been any other reason.

"No, really." I smiled back and held up my hand. Tired and frazzled as she was, you could see she was probably a pretty girl when she was done up right.

She nodded and slapped my check on the counter. "Happy Holidays" it said on the back in large, scrawled print. I counted out the bills and change, and left her a nice tip. I mean, clearly she didn’t want to be there any more than the rest of us, but was trying not to take it out on anyone.

I ducked down a short hallway that lead to the men’s room with the sound of Joni Mitchell’s voice following me, _"Late last night, I heard the screen door slam, and a big yellow taxi…"_ There, behind the scarred self-closing door, I found a typical chilly echo chamber of glazed tile and gray grout worn smooth with years of scrubbing, and still, the stale odor of disinfectant and old piss lingered.

_"Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone…"_

At least it was clean and there were towels in the dispenser.

I was almost out of cigarettes, so my next stop was the corner shop in the lounge beneath a sign that read, "Sundries." After which, I slipped out the front doors to smoke a few and stand under the security lights, shivering.

Across the parking lot, our bus idled and waited sending clouds of exhaust vapor and fumes into the air. The sky above me was overcast and starless. I’d been trying to hold off my memories, but suddenly every otherwise unoccupied corner in my head was filled with thoughts and visions of Jared. It just kept happening, like some kind of natural phenomenon I didn't have any control over as we gradually drew closer and closer to each other across time and physical space.

_"Let us be lovers, we’ll marry our fortunes together…"_

Next to me, the doors of the building swung open and the sound of the radio leaked out. Simon and Garfunkel. A couple of other passengers had wandered outside to join my vigil on the pavement. A fine mist of icy rain was settling on my skin like a cold sweat. We’d be boarding again in a few more minutes, and after that, be back on the road. I pulled one last deep inhale off the bitter end of the filter tip resting between my lips, felt the intensity of the smoke burn a little at the back of my throat, and an almost choking fullness in my lungs. Then, I let the thing fall to the sidewalk and ground out the red embers under my foot.

And wondered to myself uneasily, what was waiting for me this time, in Philadelphia?

\--------- 

After that, I really did fall asleep on the bus, all the way into downtown and the Arch St. terminal. The next time I opened my eyes it was to a large black woman shaking my shoulder and saying, "Wake up, honey. You’re here."

My eyes bolted open to the sight of her looming over me, all decked out in a stiff brimmed hat covered in red and green ribbons and holly, like some big ol’ banquet table centerpiece. "Thanks," I mumbled, pulling myself out of my seat. I blinked, like I’d dreamed her, and she laughed as she turned her back making her way through the crowded bus aisle, lugging shopping bags full of gaudily wrapped gifts. The spirit of Christmas Present.

I stumbled down the stairs and stood yawning on the frigid blacktop waiting for the driver to pull our luggage out of the compartment underneath. The wide shelf of an overhead canopy was keeping off the worst of the elements. By this time of the night, the air had turned even colder, crisp and still. Cold enough for the occasional snow crystal to form and flutter down between the droplets of sleet and rain. Fragile, silent, clean and white, they came falling gently to earth, annihilating themselves on the wet pavement. I tugged my collar up and hunched my shoulders, looking around for Jared -- Jesus, I was freezing -- and wondered if I had time for a smoke.

Then, I saw him. He’d just stepped out the driver’s side door of a car parked nearby, which totally surprised me, and came jogging over.

Without hesitation, he grabbed me and held on in a fierce hug. A bit longer perhaps than was absolutely necessary in public places. His warm breath huffed into my ear. He did not say a word. Not hello, not even my name. I rocked back and forth with him, shifting my weight from foot to foot. He felt so good in my arms.

"Hey, Jared…" was about all I could manage to say, too. I really didn’t want to let go of him either.

So, I thumped him on the back affectionately in a brotherly kind of way. And even through his thick jacket, I could feel the vibration resonate against me like a hollow thing, like the illusion of something akin to a sound. Not that it was an actual sound, exactly. That’s not what I mean. But, like, somewhere beneath my brother’s flesh and ribs there was this empty space, a vacancy. And with nothing but the strength and weight of my own hands, I could force an echo out of that emptiness.

It scared me.

Suddenly, my duffel hit the ground by my feet.

"Here ya’ go." The bus driver was giving me a curious, but not unfriendly look. I let go of my brother and reached down for my bag.

"Thanks." The guy kept staring for a split second longer, long enough for me to notice the huge disks of his irises and tiny pupils.

"That it?" Jared asked.

"I travel light these days." No drum kits, no chemical fetters. Pretty much everything I was back then could be neatly contained in the confines of an army surplus store duffel.

Plus, the fullness of what I carried inside me.

He turned and headed towards the car. "What happened to your truck?"

"Sold it."

"Jesus," his fingers wrapped under the driver’s side door handle. "Who’d have ever thought?" It was a Camaro. A nice, clean garnet red, ’87 maybe.

"Whose car?" I asked, checking. No obviously girly stuff inside.

"My boss. He loaned it to me just for you."

"Well, at least you didn’t steal it." Custom sound system, buckets. Very nice. It was warm inside, too. He’d kept the heater running while he waited.

"Mind if I smoke?"

"Not if we share." I think he meant for us both to share one cigarette, but I decided to finesse that part. Before throwing my bag into the back seat, I pulled out my fresh pack of Marlboros and a peach pie.

"Happy returns to the land of Tastykake," I grinned, waving my prize in front of him.

"You can share some of that, too. And, I think there’s a can of Charles Chips back at the apartment," he added.

"Oh! Well…" Sticks and spoons. Right back where we started from.

He settled behind the wheel with me riding passenger, again. The ignition clicked under his hand and the engine responded by purring quietly and smoothly. I lit my own cigarette, and then his from the glowing end of mine. When I held his out to him, he leaned over and took it from my fingers with his lips.

We pulled out onto Arch St. Ours was practically the only vehicle moving along the block at that hour of the night. Above us, street lamps washed out the sky and lit the falling snow like stars glittering in the dark. Like meteors and shooting stars in the grip of gravity; one shining moment of brilliance followed by a silent arcing down and down.

I watched the gaited store fronts sliding past me, all silvery gold and bright twinkling holiday lights.

"I haven’t done any Christmas shopping yet," I confessed. "Tomorrow?" Mom, Gram, I’d been away so long, I sort of didn’t know where to begin.

"I have to work in the morning," Jared answered. "But, after."

"’kay."

The street whispered wetly under the tires of a passing car. I watched through the windshield as we crossed side streets and slipped by traffic lights. Truth was, it was probably tomorrow already. There were garlands draped all along the sidewalks beside us, and up above wreaths with velvety red ribbons and fake white plastic bells, and more lights.

"How far to your apartment?"

"Not far. Couple more blocks."

I fought the urge to turn on the radio just for the sound of it. Our bits of conversation were coming easily enough, but the pauses in between them were not, and it left me feeling anxious. Jared flicked a switch on the dash sending the wiper blades gliding through rivulets of rain and sleet. He was so empty and aching inside with waiting, and yet at the same time all bright and shining with hope.

I sat back and let the inertia of my conflicted thoughts carry me forward while my brother’s hands rested on the steering wheel. At every street crossing the light glowed, "go" or "stop." All around us the shadows of a world after midnight shimmered softly with holiday tinsel and the secret wishes of children. Like the deepest blue imaginable, and a glimmer of faith in the dark.  
  
  
\---------  
  
040/00

Alpha

Tomo is getting tired. I can tell because he’s been rocking himself. It’s a habit he has now that I’ve grown used to.

He’s lying on his back in the middle of my office floor slowly rolling from side to side.

He keeps his feet tucked up close to his butt, using them to shift his weight, pushing off from right to left, then back to the right again. Over and over.

This is what he’ll do until he starts to doze.

For me, there’s something eerily peaceful about watching his quiet, repetitive, rhythmic pattern. He is the metronome of our new life, slowly winding down towards the deep sleep of a human winter.

I wonder what it is that sets the hushed, steady tempo of his motions. Perhaps it is the beating of his own heart.  
  
  
\---------  
  
040/00

Xi

 

   

   

 

\--stop--


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Six "Quiet Desperation"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* The past is on a collision course with the present for Jared and Shannon. Matt continues to struggle, looking for a way out of the here and now into the future.  
> These chapters are the band members’ journal entries of the events that followed the Crisis.

\--------- * ---------* ---------  
 _Try to let go of_  
 _the truth…_

_…the battles of_  
 _your youth_  
\--------- * --------- * ---------

 

042/00

Alpha

Right now, I’m watching Sarah drain the oil off the top of a five pound can of government surplus peanut butter so we can save it to use later for cooking, and I’m thinking to myself how much I hate all this. Because it’s not just about the fucking Crisis, as if that wasn’t enough. It’s personal.

Earlier this morning I woke up alone and staggered out of bed to find Shannon in our jerry-rigged kitchen making himself a cup of coffee by boiling two parts grounds to one part chicory, trying to make what little we have left last. It’s an old trick he learned once upon a time from our grandmother, and it made me stop and think. Just a few short weeks that seem like a lifetime ago, I was feeling pretty secure and satisfied about never needing to revisit those days ever again. Now, look at us. I wish I could just be thankful for having had those experiences to fall back on in our hour of need, but I’m not. I hate every minute of it.

Shannon always looks a little rough in the morning. He’d grabbed himself a nondescript mug off of our two-foot kitchen counter -- there’s no shortage of coffee mugs to be had in our post-apocalyptic world, by the way, only what you might want to put in them. This particular one exclaims something about visiting the _Grand Canyon!_ in bright blue glaze and it’s Shannon’s current favorite -- and then he went and stood on the bus stairs with the door wide open to smoke.

Smoking by the open door is an act of courtesy he performs in deference to me, and mind you I’m grateful, but as a practice it has other hazards. Because it does not necessarily follow that one mindful act of Shannon’s thoughtfulness directed towards me extends to anything else my brother might conceivably regard as his social responsibility. Like an actual ethic. Including restraining or conforming his personal behavior in front of the rest of the tribe, it really depends on his mood. Take public nudity, for example.

Today, before putting himself on display beneath our hallowed portal, it was almost more than he could manage to shrug into an old, threadbare pair of cutoff sweatpants. I know they’re another one of his favorite things and they must be comfortable but, Jesus, when he sits down and puts his feet up you can see all the way to Hoboken. A destination of questionable aesthetics by almost any standard you can think of. And in our current situation, I do wish there were a few things we could keep just between the two of us.

He didn’t sit down, though. He smoked a mere half a cigarette, and then frugally pinch off the smoldering end with his bare fingers so he could save the other half. I figure any minute now he’ll be pulling a disappearing act for a few hours to go make another rendezvous with Frank.

I would love to say that ever since the night of the Crisis, along with everything else that’s happened, waking up every morning here at Gabriel Crossing has been like finding myself trapped in some kind of surreal alternate reality. But the truth is, in so many ways I don’t even want to think about, I’ve already lived in this netherworld before.

Because I can still vividly remember being a kid during the eighties economic recession. Me, and Shannon and our mom. It was like falling through a trap door in the floor of the American dream, wondering if you’d ever hit bottom. And it wasn’t as if that was the first time in my life we’d ever lived on food stamps either, but definitely it was the worst time for me. Even if peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches had been the staple breakfast food -- and brother’s love -- of my childhood, by the time I was fourteen they’d become something else entirely.

It was a world without.

And I despised it. I think partly because I was older by then and very much enraptured with the destabilizing power of my own emerging awareness of "self," a wild child on the loose in the jungle of his own adolescence. There I was, deep in the thick of a new and fearsome untouched universe which, on the one hand held the promise of everything, and on the other was a dark and greedy place overrun by my mysterious urges. Defiant, desirous, illicit. Suddenly, my days and nights were dramatically backlit with an acute, covetous sensitivity to all the social admittance and material possessions I did not have. Plus, a few other unruly desires for things I knew perfectly well I absolutely shouldn’t.

And I can still remember even earlier days when my mom went to line up for public assistance from the community action food distribution program in our neighborhood. In my head, I can clearly see her standing there along with all the rest of life’s marginalized people, the elderly and the destitute. I remember the blocks of USDA government cheese and the black and white bags of generic cornmeal. And applying for the federally funded nutrition program at school. Then having to go everyday just to get something to eat.

I can still see those jarringly colorful paper punch tickets they gave you to show the cashier at the end of the cafeteria line. National School Lunch Program. The ones that brightly and cheerfully advertised to one and all your status as one of society’s truly needy -- which eventually I was too angry and humiliated to use. As the years passed, and once Shannon had discovered his god-given talent for jimmying locked doors and windows, I started reselling them to the football jocks. It was a good deal, they got double lunch portions and I got a little extra pocket cash. I had a lot more free time by then, too, since I wasn’t spending nearly as much of it in class.

Most days I was on some stranger’s couch instead, side-by-side with my brother after breaking into a house. We didn’t actually steal that much, truthfully. Just made ourselves very comfortable in other people’s homes, enjoying the shared pleasure of watching their HBO and drinking their E&J while they were at work all day. And of course with free access to their refrigerators, we were eating a lot better too. Before long, we’d quit even pretending to go to school.

I think at the time Shannon knew that wasn’t really the right choice for me, but what could he do? I was the little shadow who’d stuck to him like glue ever since I’d learned to walk. But more than that, I was on one of those downward trajectories of my own where I tend to be at war with myself and the world, and I just have to destroy practically everything around me before I can see my way clear on the path to what comes next.

Today, Matt drove me out north of the farm along a route that has until recently been inaccessible to us thanks to road blocks. Ray and Mike followed us in Ray’s pick-up, just to be a little safer, but overall the roads have definitely been a lot more secure since the United States Army appeared on the scene. Imagine that. So the risk was really low. My guys already knew the area having reconned it the day before. This trip was strictly for me and my benefit since I don’t get out much anymore.

We drove as far as the Braeburn County Fair Grounds, a sizeable piece of real estate with numerous permanent structures, a grand stand, and a five furlong dirt racing track all stashed away behind miles of nine foot high cyclone-and-barbed wire fencing. At that moment, I’d been somewhat awestruck to see it had recently been converted into a heavy equipment storage facility for the Guard, and was now bumper to bumper with transport vehicles and machines of war.

We were piddling along the road that bordered the west end fence, going less than twenty-five miles per hour, about to be intercepted by troops at a checkpoint -- and to be perfectly honest, I was sort of surprised we’d been allowed to get this close. Matt applied the brakes to the Rover and began rolling down his window.

"This hasn’t been here that long," he murmured to me, like that was news. I forget sometimes how many of his days Matt spends on these back roads, trying to learn enough to get us all through the uncertainty of our immediate future. I also forget how insulated and, god help me, _bureaucratic_ my world back at the compound has become. Like I said, I don’t get around much.

A few short minutes later, I was being introduced to Matt’s lieutenant from Bobby’s diner, who it seemed he’d been keeping in quiet contact with all this time. I nodded politely and managed to say, "Hey, how ya doin’?" before the conversation took a turn over my head.

"Gate F off the County 28, by the Saddle Horse Barn."

"Okay," Matt nodded. "All you gotta do is let me know when."

Right about then, another guardsman started walking towards our vehicle.

"No weapons are permitted within a half mile zone around the facility," Matt’s lieutenant -- his name is Brubaker, by the way -- suddenly intoned ominously. "Do you have any weapons to declare?" He was obviously speaking with sufficient force and volume to ensure he was being overheard.

"Mm, no," Matt lied smoothly. His favorite Mossburg was under the seat. _My_ side of the seat. I could feel my blood pressure ticking up. 

Then, with a distinctly theatrical scowl and stiffening of Lt. Brubaker’s spine, we were admonished to keep to the right and proceed ahead slowly to the T-intersection where we would be guided to make a left hand turn. Only properly credentialed vehicles could enter the area to the right, he emphasized, for some reason. All the while, the incredibly young, slightly sunburned infantryman who’d been approaching stood staring at us from just behind his shoulder. Politely, Matt said "thank you" and without further ceremony we were waved through. Exactly what all that had been about, I didn’t know. So, I asked.

"Uh, Matt…?" I hate not knowing, I feel like I’ve lost control.

"We’re just gonna claim some salvage," Matt told me. "But, not today and, ah, it’s not exactly like stuff they’re puttin up for public bid."

"I see." No, I don’t, I’m thinking. But, I probably don’t want to either. 

Thing was, I really wasn’t sufficiently focused on any of what had just happened, important as those details might end up being for our survival at some point in the future. As we’d continued to roll slowly passed tall grass, chained gates, and 4H barns, I’d suddenly found myself consumed by memories of the summer Shannon spent working demolition derbies at county fair grounds a lot like this one all across the Midwest. He’d been trying to help me raise enough money to make my student film. I was still in college at the time, down to the wire, preparing to face the challenge of completing my senior project. And if you think coming up with the cash and the sponsors to finance a short film is easy… back then, I had no idea how much it was really going to end up costing us. Let me put it that way.

Ray was still practically riding our bumper, right behind us in his truck. As our little convoy neared the intersection at the far end of the fence, I saw a jumble of concession trailers and carnival rides that had been pushed aside to make room for the fair ground’s present occupying army. Those must have been the original off-season tenants stored there before the Guard commandeered the space. Now, they looked like an island of misfit toys adrift in a green sea of armored destructive potential. Humvees and field artillery; Funnel cakes and Tilt-a-Whirls. I wondered how many of their owners and vendors would ever be coming back to claim them. Perhaps summer carnivals and corn dogs were destined to become just another old calendar urban legend.

Anyway. As things turned out, I never did finish my college education. The end of that story was, Shannon and I wound up in some trouble and a shitload of misunderstanding, got separated -- not for the first time -- and while we were, I quit school and headed for LA. A move that turned out to be a new beginning for both of us, but the whole time it was happening, it felt like the end of everything I ever knew. It felt like being so far underwater, I couldn’t see the surface. It felt like I couldn’t breath.

I didn’t know how to live without my brother then, and I still don’t. I don’t think I ever will. He is the angel who has followed me into all my battles, and left a bit of his immortality behind each time. Words haven’t been invented yet to express how I feel about that.

There have been occasions when Shannon’s gone off alone somewhere without me. Disappeared to heal his wounds or die of them, I would never know which. Only that I was inevitably the cause. He go to save himself, or numb himself, or maybe to sink so low he’d be even lower than any place I could ever imagine I might drag him down to with me. Just to prove a point, that he could survive. That he could endure and survive for both of us.

And I’d be frantic, because what if he couldn’t?

I’m just letting my thoughts run away with me now.

We’ve always come together again in the end, though. That’s the important thing, and it’s what I’ve kept reminding myself through the years.

That’s what I’m telling myself right now, today, as I’m writing this.

  
  
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042/00

Beta

Back when I was seventeen years old, I took off from home for the first time. It was right after Jared’s birthday, and I never told anyone I was going before I left, not even our mom. It wasn’t that kind of decision. I just… one night after everyone else had gone to bed, I threw a bunch of my stuff in a duffle, tossed it into the back seat of my car and was gone. No explanations. And believe me, in spite of how things looked at the time, it was better that way. I gotta stop and say this one thing, though, I loved that car. That was the first car I ever owned. It’s funny how I’m thinking about all this again, now.

I only took with me what I absolutely had to, whatever I figured I would need to get by, plus a couple of personal items I couldn’t bear to leave behind. My chief objective was to get out of the house as quickly and as quietly as possible, and not get caught. I never expected Jared to try to follow me and track me down. But, he did.

Nearly killed our mother, losing both of us like that, one after the other. When I finally called home just to let her know I was alright and not to worry, she told me Jared had run away. And, that he was probably looking for me. He hadn’t found me yet, though, so for a couple of days until I found _him_ , I was in a panic.

Then, when I did find him, I had to turn around and take him right back home again. Which I did, and he hated me for it, but that was how it had to be. So, I didn’t stay too long afterward before I was gone again.

For a couple years then, we only saw each other around holidays and stuff, mostly at mom’s place. Until he left for college. That following year was the one I ended up spending Christmas with him in Philadelphia, letting our mother think I was trying to fix whatever was broke between us.

Well, truth be told, we’re still kinda broken. But after all this time I’m finally pretty much reconciled to it, because when you put together all the stuff that’s just plain wrong about us, somehow it’s also the most unbreakable thing.

That first morning in Philly, I remember waking up to the smell of coffee brewing and the bass whine of a SEPTA bus engine somewhere down on the street below. For half a second, I was disoriented enough by the sound to think I was still on that Greyhound, bound for the city and my next appointment with the inevitable. But the sound of human activity in the kitchen soon told me otherwise.

A pale streak of sunrise was just being to slant in through the front windows. Across the room, on the other side of Jared’s high kitchen bar, I could see him standing by the sink rinsing his breakfast dishes. By then, I was starting to feel the return of the kink in my shoulders from too many hours spent on the road, plus a night sleeping on the couch in my brother’s front room. I was also gradually becoming aware of the draft passing over my feet where I’d kicked off the covers. The scent of caffeine was working its magic. A cigarette seemed to be in order. I stretched out my arms with a groan.

Immediately, Jared turned and smiled at me. If I could have rolled up all the desperate hopes and fractured dreams of a lifetime, and put them into one look, it would have been that smile. Still half asleep and before I could even register the baby blue of his eyes, or the soft dark curls he’d obviously taken some pains with, that single flash of unguarded vulnerability had broken my heart. This was not going to go down easy.

"I made coffee," he said casually. "Hope I didn’t wake you."

"Smells great, and of course it woke me, just like you knew it would." My voice squeaked and cracked as I spoke to him, like I hadn’t used it in a very long time. I sat up and felt the brief head rush of too little sleep.

"I got something nice," he continued about the coffee, which smelled amazing to tell the truth. "From the place next door to where I work. You’ll see."

So he’d splurged a little for my visit. For some reason that thought was making my stomach ache. The momentary thumpy feeling that had started in my temples when I first sat up was migrating to the middle of my forehead. Without stopping to consider how it might have looked, I clenched my eyes shut and raised my hands, scrubbing them over my face.

"Can’t vouch for the city water, though." He was still talking, trying to use words to find the connection I probably seemed to be denying him from my eyes. "We always use filtered water. Word to the wise."

After that he was quiet, waiting. Watching me while I collected my thoughts. So far, I felt like I was functioning on about two cylinders, struggling to get my emotional bearings, and only halfway to lucid. It was like being lost somewhere between worlds, still caught up in something I’d been dreaming right before I woke, but… now it was gone. I couldn’t remember what. The sense of it, though, the unease, clung to me like a stale odor. Blearily, I realized I hadn’t even bothered about returning Jared’s smile.

"Bathroom," I mumbled, forcing myself to my feet and stumbling down his apartment’s short hallway.

Second door on the right. Windowless, but sky lit, a fact I had missed last night after dark. At first, I avoided confronting myself in the mirror, but then when I was almost finished and had thrown some water on my face, I took a long, long look. Definitely this was going to be harder than I thought. The desire for something a lot stronger than coffee for breakfast had already seized a hold of me, but I knew I couldn’t risk it, for either of us. I just… all that naked yearning, the expression on his face, everything he was trying but failing to mask. I needed something, anything, I could put between myself and all of that. Otherwise.

"I’m leaving for work now!" His voice filtered down the hall and through the aging solidity of the bathroom door. Obviously, I was expected to come out and make an appearance before he went, so I dried my face and hands and reached resolutely for the doorknob.

"It lives!" he teased as I shuffled up to the kitchen bar. I muttered something back, not actual words, I don’t think.

"Here," he grabbed me a mug and poured me a cup from the steaming coffee pot. "Don’t try to talk until you’ve had your medicine." He was humoring me. I took his advice, though, draining nearly half the cup while watching him head for the coat rack by the front door and shrug into his winter jacket.

"Work?" I ventured, a single syllable meant to convey any number of questions I wasn’t articulating. I knew he worked, and roughly where, that it was within walking distance. And that he’d be stuck there all morning until the owners came in to relieve him around lunchtime.

"Meet me around noon and we can get something to eat before we go shopping."

My head bobbed up and down in agreement. "Directions?"

He hustled back across the room and snatched a piece of paper from counter, waving it under my nose. "All written down for you."

"’Kay," I squinted, still clutching my mug.

"You awake?" He grinned.

"No." I told him honestly. Not really.

" _Or_ ," he considered, offering me an alternative plan, "we can meet up a little earlier if you want to grab coffee next door. We don’t have to get lunch right away. We can shop first."

Too many choices, too little caffeine. "Sounds good," I said. My head was still nodding affably, but my gaze was tracing the walls. I’d have agreed to anything, I just needed something neutral to say and a few minutes to myself. Alone. Which I’d have as soon as he was gone.

"Um, if you want to make another pot of coffee before you leave?…" Jared sounded uncertain. He was watching me and he wasn’t fooled for a minute. He was feeling anxious about whatever the hell was going on with me, so naturally he was stalling. "Use the filtered water in the pitcher."

As if on cue, I turned around and looked back into the kitchen, grateful to have something else to be attentive to so I could keep avoiding his eyes.

"We’re pretty sure the water main that comes in through the basement is still the old original lead pipe," he told me. "Actually, we’re sure. We checked."

Old building. Turn of the century. Nothing we hadn’t encountered before as kids living in the northeast. But they’re supposed to let you know about that shit before they rent to you. Seemed like at some point, he must have been down below street level with a magnet, exactly the way Mom had taught us.

"They let you in the basement?" Hardly seemed likely. Usually the boiler and the fuse box were kept behind locked doors with the building manager holding the key, and if the landlord was being coy about the water situation…

"No."

But, he’d been down there anyway. I couldn’t quite manage to squelch my smile.

"You have learned well, padawan." I grinned, finally looking him in the face. Figured I didn’t have to tell him not to let himself get caught.

"Alright, you take your shower and eat something," he was deliberately changing the subject, "and I’ll see you later." As he turned to make his way to the door, he stopped and planted a theatrical, self-conscious kiss on my cheek. "By-y-ye," his voice lilted. "Love you."

"Love you, too," I grumbled, adding, "Don’t stand under any mistletoe."

I’m not sure why I felt the need to make that last remark, but he raised an eyebrow at me and laughed a little harder than a lame line like that actually warranted, or so I thought. In just a couple more hours, though, I would get the joke.

Today, I don’t remember much else about what I did in the apartment alone that morning. Drank the coffee, watched some TV, took a shower. Folded up my blankets where I’d made my bed on the living room couch the night before and organized my stuff a little. Because right there was where I fully intended to stay for the next few days, in spite of Jared‘s offer to share a warm bed. Now that I’m thinking about it, I do recall over in the corner by the front windows there was a sad looking, little Charlie Brown-type Christmas tree set up on a table. It had been decorated with a string of multicolored lights that twinkled, and an odd assortment of make-shift decorations. Stuff like, somebody’s miniature Transformers collection and a couple of matchbox cars, all tied on with pieces of string. There were some origami cranes, too, that Jared might have had a hand in making. Or, I reasoned, it could just as easily have been one of his roommates’ girlfriends, because nearly all the way around the back, half hidden next to the wall, there was also a pair of pink thong underwear clothes-pinned to a branch looking more like a trophy than a tree ornament, but whatever.

And, I can remember checking out the view from the front window, looking down on the street below where I saw groups of girls going by all bundled up in short coats and scarves, and all wearing leotards and leg warmers. Dancers, on their way to or from a rehearsal or a performance I’d guessed, even the day before Christmas. Back and forth, I watched them go all morning. I was beginning to see the appeal of Jared’s apartment location, in spite of the street grime and bad water.

So, what was I saying? Even though I knew something about where Jared worked, it was still a trippy experience for me when I first got there.

I let myself in the door of what gave every appearance of being a typical turn-of-the-century store front, gifts and picture frames in the front window, books and magazines farther back. Taped to the glass was a flyer about "GALA" -- a local gay and lesbian arts festival. Over on the right beyond some display shelves was the service counter, and at the far end of that, stacks of recently delivered magazines still bundled with twine. There was Jared, stationed behind the register in full flirtation mode. Which in his case, to this day, means a stand-offish blend of sullen and disinterested that for some strange reason the majority of the human race finds perfectly irresistible. Standing directly in front of him was a tall guy in a sheepskin coat who was shifting his weight from foot to foot and chuckling nervously. It was a weird sound that came huffing and puffing out of his throat in spasms, low and breathy. Not like a genuine laugh at all. More like panting almost, and instantly it set my teeth on edge.

Okay. I mean, it wasn’t like I hadn’t figured out yet that Jared’s directions had lead me straight into the heart of Philadelphia’s gay neighborhood. Or, that I never thought Jared would ever have any gay friends going to art school, I just… never thought about it _specifically_ , I guess, in any detail. One way or the other. And now, here stood reality with its broad shouldered back to me, all lechery and heavy breathing pointed right in my little brother’s direction.

I didn’t even try to catch Jared’s eye as I slipped passed them and up to a magazine rack near the back of the shop. Close, but not too close. Old habits die hard. In fact, when it comes to me and Jared, they don’t die at all, I don’t think. Even though we’d hardly seen anything of each other over the last couple of years, there was still this instinct. He would know I was there if he needed me.

"I don’t know," my brother was hedging quietly, "I may have things to do that day." He leaned back, eyes alternately flashing dares and daggers at the… grown fucking ass man with graying hair at his temples, now that I’d noticed, who kept fidgeting restlessly on the other side of the counter.

"Well, you can pick your own time, drop by when you’re not busy?" he wheedled.

I can’t even tell you how hard it was for me to not jump the gun at that point. I didn’t though. I was gonna let Jared handle it, if he could, for now. I unraveled my fists -- didn’t realize I’d been clenching them -- and as casually as I was capable of at that moment, reached for something, anything, I could pretend to read and began flipping pages. And hovering. Listening and waiting to hear Jared tell that creepy fuck he’d be busy all day, and everyday, for the rest of his life. Instead, my brother took out a pair of scissors, snapped open the blades, and using just the bare knife-like edge with some vicious precision, slipped them under the twine on one of those bundles of magazines and slashed right through. A single, merciless upward thrust like he was neutering a bull or something. And then he did it again to the next bundle. And the next.

"I’ll have to let you know," he murmured softly.

Jesus. But, I guess his message came through loud and clear enough. Suddenly the guy was looking decidedly flushed and all the panting had come to a halt. Relieved, I finally managed to pull my sidelong gaze away long enough to focus my attention on the page I was holding open in front of myself, and … _whoa!_ I mean, _what the ever-loving… ?!…_ was this?

"Oh, sure," the wolf in the sheep fur coat was back-peddling hastily. "Anytime you’re free. Uh, you know how to reach me?"

Nonchalantly, or at least I imagined I was keeping it cool, I stole a glance at the cover of the magazine I held in my hands, double checking. _Drummer._ That’s what I’d thought, but holy shit.

"Pretty sure I do, yeah," Jared drawled dryly, not even looking up, still completely in control of the situation.

Unlike me, totally. Inside of my head, I was all over the place. I couldn’t seem to settle my emotions into either the red rage I was verging on, or a cold sweat. I blinked up at the rack of unfamiliar titles swimming before my eyes, _Blueboy_ , _LeatherDaddy_ … and the cover photos -- oh, lord -- and rolled my eyes away quickly, first down, and then left, then up, searching for any safe place they could come to rest.

"Good." Sheepman was literally walking backwards towards the door, in full retreat. "I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you… then…" he trailed off weakly. Still hoping, I suppose, to salvage something from the exchange.

But I was a little too stunned from all the skin and studded leather and bondage and _hairy-backed naked_ to really be paying much attention. I mean, it’s not like Jared and I had never known any gay people growing up as kids, or no one ever talked to us about it. They did, just not in terms of twinks and leather Daddies.

I closed the distance to the counter, and Jared, trying not to sprint and plunked down my magazine without even noticing I was still clutching it. Jared stood calmly looking over his work, but he stopped at that, letting his eyes flick at the name on the cover, and the barest hint of a grin began pulling at the corner of his mouth. Before I could even ask him if he was alright, he said to me, "Are you okay?"

I’m fine. Fuck. Yeah, I’m chill. Hey, everything’s copasetic. How ‘bout you?

"Who the hell was that?" I blurted. "You know that guy?" Which was not at all what I meant to say.

"He’s harmless," Jared told me. Incredibly. I don’t know how he expected me to buy that, and I must have been radiating my disagreement like neutrons, because before I could even answer, he added, "You want to go next door and get a cup of coffee? I should be done here soon."

Right. Yeah. When the owner showed up at noon, I remembered. I took a deep, calming breath. That was better. Alright, sure. There were car keys to return, and… it suddenly dawned on me the store’s owner, Jared’s boss, the guy who’d hired him and who was also someone that would loan Jared his goddamn Camaro, was probably gay, too.

"Okay." I stuttered, then started moving towards the door, knowing it was going to take more than coffee to fix this.

  
  
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042/00

Gamma

Jared took the news that we were "claiming some salvage" with a lot less skepticism and curiosity than I was expecting. I’m not sure if that’s because he was already anticipating the need to maintain an illusion of plausible deniability at some point in the near future, or if he's just been too preoccupied with other things he’s had on his mind lately. My gut hunch, without him actually saying anything that would prove or disprove it, is he’s been worrying about Shannon a lot. ‘Cause he’s been way too quiet for it to be anything else. If it was something about our situation at the farm or the Swallows, he’d be talking to me and clearing the air. But Shannon has always been an intensely private subject with Jared. Over the years, I’ve learned to leave these things be.

Unless it’s something to do with Tomo. To be honest, Jared doesn’t talk to me about him quite the way he used to anymore either, so that’s the other possibility. Mind you, Jared’s just as affectionate with Tomo as ever, and maybe even more so now. So, I don’t think there’s anything wrong between the two of them. But Jared’s become kinda cautious and a lot more guarded around me anytime there’s something that needs to be said about Tomo‘s situation. Like he’s measuring every word.

Eventually, I think Jared will manage to share whatever he’s been obsessing over. Once he’s had the chance to frame it in some kind of context he can personally accept. I just have to be patient while he’s ruminating. And vigilant. Because by left to himself, Jared’s a little too distracted these days for his own good, and ours.

Not that under the present circumstances that doesn’t have an upside.

When we got back to the compound, the entire front lot was basically deserted except for Tomo who was sitting on the ground outside with Lacey and Dress-me doll Roger. Mike, who was supposed to be keeping an eye on him was nowhere in sight. That was a little odd.

"He needs practice," Lacey informed us bluntly as we approached. She was referring to Tomo’s ability to tie miniature shoes.

More than likely he just wasn’t interested right then, but "We’re working on it," I told her. "Where’s Mike?" I added conversationally, trying not to be an alarmist. My eyes scanned the length of the living quarters all the way down to the guard house, noting by the turn of Jared’s head his gaze was already there way ahead of me.

"He went someplace with Shannon," she replied. This is the thing I’ve learned about Lacey -- besides the fact that she considers herself to be on a first name basis with all the powers that be at Gabriel Crossing, she’s also probably the most observant seven-year-old informant an NSA agent could ask for.

"On foot?" I prompted.

"No." She shook her head.

Tomo reached out and held up a tiny toy comb in Lacey’s direction, that’s when I first noticed the rows of shiny rhinestone barrettes in his hair.

"They take a car?" I pressed. Obviously, she was enjoying playing twenty questions and being the center of attention.

"Uh-huh, that brown one." She gestured at an empty parking space where an old, dirt-colored Jeep Cherokee had been sitting mostly idle for weeks. The thing was sturdy enough, and the engine was sound. The only problem was it drank gasoline like a fish breathes water.

"You know which way they went?" Jared asked, and already I could sense his ire was armed and ticking.

"That way." Lacey pointed down the main road toward the center of town. Opposite of the way you would go to get to the farm, but definitely the direction you would head in to sneak off to Bobby’s, or the Guard encampment.

"So, who’s watching Tomo?" Jared wondered aloud with a frustrated scowl.

"I am," replied Lacey indignantly, squinting at him like his powers of deduction would not bear much scrutiny.

"Well, thank you. We appreciate it," I told her trying to smooth things over before they could escalate into a critical misunderstanding.

"Yes, thank you," Jared added apologetically. "Under the circumstances, I’m sure I couldn’t ask for anyone better," he continued. And unless you were someone who really knew him, I suspect you could barely detect the traces of acidity and irony in his tone.

Ray and Logan had pulled the weapons out of our vehicles and were heading toward the guardhouse to stow them. Seeing them go, Jared began striding off after them, yelling would they please let him know who the fuck they found, if anybody, in charge there? Minding the post? And was anyone actually doing what they were fucking supposed to be doing today, or what? I could tell he was winding himself up for a good old fashioned meltdown of the sort I hadn’t seen or heard since our days on the road touring -- always an exhilarating experience for whomever was on the receiving end. At the sound of Jared’s unbridled irritation, Tomo was instantly alert and on his feet.

"It’s alright," I mumbled, tucking an arm around him. "We’re okay," I soothed, talking into his softly curling, barrette-spiked hair. Tomo held a protective hand out for Lacey, who grabbed it and repeated the same mantra. "It’s alright," she told him. "We’re all fine." "He’s just being Jared," I added with a conspiratorial wink and a grin. Tomo wasn’t taking any chances, however. He gathered Lacey against his side anyway. I was watching him closely; he was so focused. If Jared was sounding some kind of an alarm, Tomo was going to be ready.

And that would have been the picture that met Jared’s eyes when he suddenly turned back to us -- a cobbled together American Gothic set against this Mad Max architecture of our new life. I watched it register on his face with an emotion I know well, but for which there is no adequate description. There are moments of nearly every day that take you over like that, unaware. I keep thinking I’ve grown used to this, acclimated myself, but it hasn’t happened yet. We get up every morning and just keep moving. Not even knowing if there’s going to be a future, but we go at it with everything we’ve got all the same. Most of the time because the present we’re living in doesn’t give us any alternate choice.

\--stop-- 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Six "Quiet Desperation"  
> Authorship: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* Both Jared and Shannon are feeling distracted by issues from the past. So, Matt starts making his own decisions.

\--------- * ---------* ---------  
_Try to let go of_  
_the truth…_

_…the battles of_  
_your youth_  
\--------- * --------- * ---------

 

042/00

Alpha

I found them. Didn’t take that long. They were with Trev Westfall at his gas station in town, and right now the concrete curb of a fuel service island is digging into my butt while I sit watching my brother pull the backseat out of a late model Jeep Cherokee. He’s making room for a reserve fuel tank. It’s an old demolition derby driver’s trick, putting the gas tank in the backseat. Sometimes I forget how good at this stuff Shannon used to be. Any other time I’d be saying I wish I could forget, but not today. Ironic, how life can change your perspective of the past.

Now that some the county roadblocks have come down, we’re able to recon a little farther in the surrounding territory than we could before. Which is good, because lately local pickings have been pretty slim. But it can be a long way between fill-ups out there in the wilds. This way, our team will have a little extra fuel on board to go the distance, and some reserve incase they run into any trouble.

Mike is asking Shannon something about the firewall that’s got to go between the tank and the front seat where the driver and passenger sit. That’s the part they’re going to do next. I can’t really hear Shannon’s reply, most of him is leaning into the rear of the Jeep straining over the nuts and bolts of things I’m trying to keep out of the way of. He’s stripped off his shirt, and his face and shoulders are already a rosy red from the sun and all the exertion. I can see where his skin is beginning to glisten. Once he gets the bench loose and starts lifting and tugging, I decide it’s safe to get up and go give him a hand.

But, when I appear by his side, his first impulse is to shoo me away. I watch him check himself, though, and instead he points to the place where he wants me to grab a hold. I’m pretty sure it’s not that Shannon doesn’t want my help today, it was a simple, instinctive gesture. In fact, I’d be willing to bet I know exactly what the real issue is. It’s those last, lingering, emotionally charged remnants of our shared history, the ghosts of another time and place. I know, because my thoughts can’t help straying there either. Shannon’s still trying to keep me out of things for my own protection. He wants me standing clear and kept in the dark, with my hands clean and untainted by knowing. Even after all this time, my brother’s memories continue to have a life of their own somewhere inside him, and it’s the same with me. In my worst moments, I’m still chasing after him trying to save him from himself. And today it seems our old secrets are a little closer to the surface than usual.

Right this minute, I’m thinking I don’t understand why we continue doing these things to each other. Here and now, under these condition. I mean, I do understand. I know exactly _why_ , but it’s so fucking dysfunctional.

It takes us a little while, a couple of scraped knuckles and some swearing, before we finally get everything upholstered and flammable out of the interior. Once we do, Shannon and Trev start pushing the gutted remains into one of the bays so the welding can begin. They’re going to reinforce the roof and install a better sway bar, too, Mike tells me. I push from the rear while my brother grabs onto the frame up front by the windshield and reaches in through the open driver’s window to steer.

As he leans into his task, all along his back and arms I can see the swelling and firmness of muscles working beneath his skin. Shannon is much stronger now than he was even a decade ago. Or, two. In a lot of different ways, but what I mean is, physically he's more muscled than the boy I can still picture clearly in my waking dreams. Those days seem so distant and yet still so close to the surface of who we are. Back when we were young and reckless together, and that sometimes I think just under the skin we still must be. Today, I’m having a vivid recollection of him standing on a dirt field with muddy cheeks and a dimpled grin. I’m holding his helmet, and he’s hooking a tow cable under his battered wreck so the pit crew can haul it away. I can’t remember if he won that one, or not.

Watching the flex and roll of contours across his shoulders, it’s a man’s body I’m seeing now, noting his strength with each stretch and tightening down the length of his spine. I know the feel of that tension sliding underneath my hands…

I literally have to stop myself from thinking these thoughts, and staring at him, before something happens that will embarrass both of us.

Well, I’m no help at all when it comes to welding, but I do know enough to realize it’s not the sort of spectator activity you want to indulge in without the right kind of protective gear for your eyes. And, the shadows are getting long on the blacktop already, so with nothing useful to contribute, I decide to head back to the compound and check in.

Mike comes with me, he’s on the dinner shift K.P. Trev has propped a couple fifty pound sacks of Idaho potatoes and a full crate of edamame just inside the door for us to take back to the diner. More trades he’s made with truckers, one going south and the other headed east. We’re still trying to figure out just how far those eastbound guys are actually going, and where exactly. Reno, maybe, or Las Vegas. The eastern route semi didn’t even stop for fuel, but solely for the purpose of trading with Trev. Sarah had given the Westfalls a few pounds of almonds and bushel baskets of tomatoes, and asked them to do their best with it. Almonds are trading at a premium, we discovered, so we’ve been avoiding eating many of them ourselves. Little by little our networks are becoming more established. As we heave our traded goods into the back of the Rover, I tell Trev if he wants to meet me at Mugs in an hour, I’ll treat him to a steak dinner. Our freezers are full of beef again. I don’t have to make that offer twice.

When I get home and pull around back of the diner, there are two other cars on the lot I don’t recognize. One of the consequences of more roads being open is more traffic and travelers. We’ve had to paper over the front windows and put out the "Closed" sign, because people keep stopping by in hopes of finding a meal. I hate to just send folks away hungry, but most days it’s all we can do to feed ourselves. So lately we’ve been giving them directions to Bobby’s place, because he’s usually the best stocked, having the most reliable chain of supply, and that’s worked out pretty well for everyone. In return, he’s been sending us tokens of his appreciation for the referrals. Yesterday it was a twenty-four pack case of fresh Romaine and an assortment of red and yellow onions.

Some days I really wish I had Bobby’s connections, but most days I figure I know just enough about that I’m still glad I don’t.

By the backdoor of the kitchen I find a family with three kids profusely thanking my aproned, former guitar tech Jack for a small brown bag of canned tuna sandwiches on Sarah’s homemade bread and a quart jar of milk. I raise an eyebrow at him, but don’t say a word. By the looks of them, they probably don’t have much, if anything, to offer in trade. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but I’ve done similar things myself recently. I think we all have, just don’t tell anyone.

"Hey, Jared," he mumbles sheepishly at my unanticipated appearance.

"Hey," I answer back quietly, nudging passed him. From the corner of my eye, I see the mom’s head turn to look at me, and then she squeaks out a little gasp that ends in a wordless whisper. She’s gaping at me.

"How’s it goin’," I smile tightly and self-consciously raise a hand to rub my cheek. Truthfully, I’m half hiding behind the curve of my palm, checking myself for the signs of our rough ‘n’ ready life. I shaved this morning, not something I always choose to do. My fingers meet with clean, smooth skin, which at the moment is also unusually warm. I guess even if the rest of me looks a little ragged, I’m still giving good face. How odd, though, to be recognized these days. For all those things I’d done in a former life that today feels like it must have happened light years ago.

Inside, Jenna and another woman I don’t know well are chopping vegetables and simmering things in pots. Tomo and Logan are sorting through boxes of green beans and that… is something I actually stop and watch for a second, because for once Tomo seems to know exactly what he’s doing. In fact, Tomo kind of looks like he’s the one in charge when he pulls a few wilted specimens from Logan’s pile and holds them under his nose disapprovingly. Logan looks down to see what he’s being admonished for and then grins sheepishly. "Sorry," he mutters, like maybe this is something that’s happened before.

I borrow Logan for a minute to help bring in the potatoes while Mike goes to fire up the ovens. Then, I take a share of the produce over to Sarah, who still prefers to make her own family meals in her own kitchen. And I don’t blame her. We all take our ‘normal’ any way we can find it.

The front of the motel office is boarded over and we’ve parked vehicles outside deliberately blocking the entrance, but somehow a middle-aged couple who belong to that second car over at Mugs have found their way into Sarah’s presence, and her heart. She’s fixing them up with a bed for the night. Don’t ask me where, or how. When I set my offering down on her kitchen table, Toby starts babbling at me self-importantly from his hi-chair, and if he has any inkling at all the world is not exactly as it should be and he isn’t at the center of it, it doesn’t show.

Suddenly, I find myself thinking, I don’t know how my mother did it. But she did.

And so can we.

\---------

An hour later, I’m sitting in a corner booth at Mugs while our grill master Mike is setting a half-pound medium rare t-bone in front of Trev Westfall. Shannon is having a filet, which is a little unusual for him since swearing off the red meat a couple of years ago, but this evening he seems happy with the exception. We have pan fried potatoes and caramelized onions on the side. Jack arrives with my boiled edamame. He also brings a platter of corn cakes with freshly made salsa and a large family style bowl of tossed salad to pass around. I see the kitchen staff has gone all out this time. The coffee’s hot and aromatic, life almost seems semi-normal. For the moment.

This is my own official table now, in the corner in the back. No one will approach us while we sit here talking and eating. I’ll be attend to only by my most trusted, picked men. I feel like the fucking Godfather. It’s not a system I worked out for myself, things just kind of evolved into this over time. Jack has slowly developed a habit of guarding the sanctity of my person like it was his professional calling. And maybe I haven’t exactly done a lot to discourage him all the time either, because the hell with it, sometimes this is easier.

After consuming the first few mouthfuls in a reverent silence, Trev tells us, "Frank Grayson’s been talking about reviving the village council." That is, the village council of Gabriel Crossing, the local democratic governing body. "He asked me if I’d be willing to serve." Trev’s knife is carefully slicing off the next morsel of beef steak headed for its appointed destiny with his taste buds, and his eyes never once glance up at us as he speaks. A glob of golden onions tops the hunk of meat adorning his fork. He’s creating a masterpiece which he then swirls through the juices on his plate.

"I can fix you up with a couple more of those to take home," I tell him, gesturing to the remaining meal in front of him. Then, "Why the hell would he want to do that?" I wonder aloud about the wily Colonel Grayson and his obscure motives. As an independent Sacramento protectorate, we won’t be subject to the council’s rules, but democracy seems a little off the beaten path of Frank’s presumed totalitarian ambitions.

"Oh, he’s not talking about holding open elections," Trev is quick to point out cynically. "He’s hand selecting his men. To start with, he wants just three."

I see. Well, that makes a lot more of the unpleasant kind of sense I’ve gradually gotten used to in our brave new world. "Would it be too rude of me to point out that maybe he thinks he’s got you in his pocket?" I venture gently. Generally, my impression of Trev has been he’s an up front sort of guy with few pretenses.

"No," he mumbles around his next mouthful. "Grayson’s the gatekeeper for all the fuel supplies in these parts. Gasoline, diesel, kerosene, propane. He knows who he’s got by the balls."

My point, and thank you for taking it head on. "Think you can stand up to him?" I ask. For a fact, I know I sound vaguely confrontational and definitely impolitic this time. But, I’m tired of pussy-footing around. I need guys like Trev who’ll just give me some straight talk.

"Not alone."

"Who are the other two council members going to be?"

"No idea," he tells me. "But I’ve heard a rumor he might have asked Auggie Covelli."

"Who is…?" I’m drawing a complete blank.

Trev shifts in the booth across from me and looks me square in the eye. "That pharmacy owner in town who got robbed the first night of the Crisis. The one who kept calling for a DEA investigator to look into the disappearance of all those drugs."

Shannon exhales suddenly and deflates visibly. He slumps in his seat where he’s been sitting next to Trev the whole time, listening quietly. From his reaction, it looks to me like this is all new information to him. I don’t think he had any inkling of it.

But, "Wait…" I’m having trouble collecting my thoughts after this newest revelation. "Is he even still around?" That pharmacy has been padlocked and sealed like a tomb ever since it was looted, and after those first couple of days of post-Crisis hysteria, the whole case seemed to have dropped out of the public consciousness and into a void.

Trev shrugs. "Personally, I haven’t seen him for over a month." To him, it’s clearly a mystery. "But you know, even that fact alone…" he pauses. "You don’t get too far on the roads these days without the right kind of official paperwork."

True. So, if Covelli did leave, did he have help getting out? And, if he didn’t… If, if, _if_. My head is spinning. Nothing makes sense.

"And maybe it’s just a rumor," Trev offers.

Then, there’s that.

"Either way," my brother has found his voice, "it sure as hell doesn’t mean anything good for Cody."

No, no it really doesn’t. Or for any part of that whole situation we’ve got going up at the farm. I need a minute. I have to think about this. Frank’s trying to outmaneuver me, of that, I am positive. And he may have already done it. But why? What’s so fearsome about a paramedic and a makeshift medical clinic that accepts eggs and butter in exchange for care? We’re such little fish. Then again, it’s all sitting right on top of an arsenal. Maybe Frank doesn’t think that’s an accident. Every which way I turn, the scope of the mess we’ve gotten ourselves into seems to keep getting larger and more complicated.

I have to protect my people, though. That’s my primary mission, that much is clear to me. And first thing tomorrow I’m going to do more about that by following up on some details I know I probably should have taken care of already.

But right now, I’m looking forward to a serving of Sarah’s strawberry shortcake with whipped cream. When it arrives at the table the look on Trev’s face is nothing short of euphoric. I’ll send him home with some of that as well, enough for his family. Because they’re a part of our family now, too.  
  
  
\---------

044/00

Beta

I don’t know how it happens. It starts with a certain sort of love, I guess. The kind you wouldn’t share with anyone else, and the trust that goes with it. Maybe add to that a sense of estrangement you feel from the rest of the world when the landscape around you is always changing, and the traditional rules of order don’t seem to apply. Not to the two of you at any rate. That other life, the one you see everyone else sharing? That’s just a series of receding images disappearing through the backseat window. One after the other, a future you’re forever escaping from. Another identity, another history left behind. You move on. You start again with a brand new name. While you may be in the world, you are not of this world. Your world is your own, the one you make with each other.

And that’s the only real stability either one of you has ever known. The stability of the two of you, together.

The Christmas I’ve been writing about, the one I spent with Jared in Philadelphia? That was the year he gave me a new lens for my Nikon. Which was just one of the stranger ironies about us spending Christmas alone together that year. Because I’d already pretty much decided to give my old camera to him. I wasn’t using it. He was the one taking classes in photography, seemed like the logical thing to do.

It had been my very first camera. Not brand new, but a sort of hand-me-down family heirloom when I got it. Those old Nikon F’s were pretty indestructible, it was a good beginner’s camera for a kid with an overactive urge to explore. But even so, with all the moving around from place to place and the packing and unpacking, somehow I managed to crack my telephoto lens. A very good, professional quality Nikkor, in fact, which was really depressing. So for a long time afterward, that had been the end of my itinerate career as seeker and seer of all things normally overlooked by the modern world. Then, I got the idea in my head maybe Jared could make some use of it.

"It’s used," he told me when I’d carefully unpacked his gift from its thick nest of the Sunday funnies all tied up with a bit of bright red ribbon. Heavy, vintage, solid in my hand. Probably as reliable as the day it was made. Beside me, the lights on his sagging holiday tree were twinkling bravely against the early darkness of winter. It was only Christmas Eve, but he literally hadn’t been able to wait ’til morning to give it to me. "It‘s in really good condition, though" he assured me eagerly.

"Jared," I said, "you shouldn’t have spent your money." Not after he’d been telling everybody he couldn’t afford to miss work, not even to come home for the holidays. Just hours earlier, we’d spent part of our afternoon together at his favorite art supply store while I let him pick out his own Christmas present. Under the circumstances, I’d figured that was best, letting him get something he could use for his education. I'd had the pleasure of watching him pour over rapidograph pens and drafting sets as he made his choices. Back at the apartment, though, hidden in my duffle, I'd brought along one other gift that, so far, I’d managed to keep a secret from him.

"I didn’t," he confessed about the cost. "A guy I did some work for gave it to me in trade."

"Do I want to know?" I snorted. Faintly, I could hear the syrupy strains of Christmas music playing on the radio in Jared’s kitchen. _"Oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays, for no matter how far away you roam…"_ I trusted his judgment for the most part. It wasn’t that. It was more that his hold on this new future he was trying to make for himself still seemed so tenuous.

"Mmm." My brother made a non-committal sound and stared at me for a second wearing the slightest trace of a cryptic smile. Like he was thinking about trying to lie to me, and weighing up the potential benefits and risks.

"You mean that guy I saw today hanging around where you work?" I guessed. The one he’d swore to me was harmless.

"He’s a photography instructor at school, a guest lecturer. He has his own studio here in center city."

"Uh-huh." This was Jared not lying to me, exactly, but not telling me the whole truth either. I knew, because right after my display of hyper-vigilance at the shop that morning, he’d kinda shut down on me for a while. Maybe he was exercising an excess of caution because he thought he couldn’t afford to take a risk with me. That I might up and disappear on him again or something, I don’t know. It wasn’t the first time Jared had demonstrated an instinct for topic avoidance in the aftermath of our estrangement. Anyway, I guessed in his current state of mind the only reason he would be parting with anymore information might be in the attempt to create an illusion of openness between us. So, I put on my best poker face and upped the ante with my silence.

"I did some organizing for him, ran a few errands," he volunteered in response to my unresponsiveness. His tone had the neutral quality of a vocal shrug, but I got the distinct impression I was being carefully nudged along a nice, safe line of thinking. Safer than some other alternative he clearly _didn’t_ want me to think about. The songs on the radio were still whispering merrily in the background, _"…let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…"_ We exchanged looks and I waited a little longer, figuring if I could keep quiet for long enough, eventually Jared would say something more out of his need to maintain control of the conversation.

"His regular assistant was taking some time off."

Which he did, just like that. "For the holidays," I offered, somewhat less than sincerely. As if I were trying to help his story along, only not.

"Thanksgiving, actually," he told me calmly, and I was pretty sure I saw the slightest hint of a challenge flash in his eyes.

_"When we finally kiss good-night, how I’ll hate going out in the storm…"_

Every sense, every instinct I had was telling me Jared’s ‘instructor’ yearned for a whole lot more than a simple temp worker where my brother was concerned, but the part that I was finding even more disturbing was my niggling intuition Jared had wanted something from him as well.

"Yeah? So… he has a lot of bookings over the Thanksgiving holiday?" Really, little brother? "People make time for that sort of thing between their turkey dinner and Black Friday shopping?"

"Family groups who want portraits taken," he replied smoothly. "It’s the one time they’re already all together."

Oh.

I nodded my head thoughtfully and turned Jared’s slightly tainted gift over in my hands. "So, he’s one of those arty photographers," I remarked. I don’t know why I felt the need to keep taking digs like that, other than I’d really despised the way that old coot had been leering at my brother.

"When he can afford to be. The rest is just bread and butter," Jared responded with the same calculated ease he’d used to tell me everything else. "He has a very mainline clientele that supports his other work. If they want a family portrait…"

They get one. Old money, right, I got it. I didn’t have to like it, though. This was a very old story with us, always living on the fringe of that kind of privilege.

"How about you?" Jared asked suddenly. Very clever. Just three little words and he’d deftly one-eightied the subject on me. "What are you doing these days to keep body and soul together?"

Interesting turn of phrase. "Oh, you know, nuts and bolts, this and that." Business in the front, chop shop in the back. Suddenly it was my turn to see if I could keep him away from the complete truth of the matter.

I was off to a bad start though, because as vague as I’d tried to be, something I’d said or done while saying it had made my brother blanch.

"Hey," I added quickly, and I hoped, reassuringly. "I’m in show business now." I grinned and gestured widely. "I thought you heard?"

"Ah, no." Now, I noted, he just looked confused. Which on the whole was better.

"The gentleman I work for," I began, with mock formality, "is an entrepreneur who runs demolition derbies for state fairs all through the upper Midwest."

For a moment, Jared’s expression looked blank, then, "You can make money doing that?" he asked skeptically.

"Hell, yeah. Rust belt rodeo, baby." I laughed, feeling like I’d dodged a bullet. "But it’s seasonal. Right now there’s not much going on." Except for the irregular activities no one ever talked about openly.

"So, you sold your truck," he sighed. You could almost hear the beads clicking into place as my brother totaled up the sum of our combined fortunes.

"Wasn’t worth keeping. I’ll get a newer one when I get back," I told him. He didn’t need to know what the cost of that was going to be. Anymore than he was willing to tell me the full price of his own ambitions.

Jared fell silent then, looking down and dragging his fork through the remains of dinner on the plate in his lap. Thai noodles and a side of cold broccoli salad we’d picked up at various take-out places on our wanderings that afternoon. An odd combination maybe, but all local favorites of his. There was a pumpkin pie on the kitchen counter too, for tomorrow, and a chicken in his fridge. More salad, fresh bakery bread, sweet potatoes, green beans. It had looked like an awful lot of cooking to me, but while Jared was buying it, he’d been acting like he had everything under control. Oh, and cranberry sauce. A big deli container full of cranberries with bits of fruit in red jelly.

Somewhere on the fringe of my attention, the soft sounds of carols and holiday songs coming from the radio kept bleeding into my thoughts, _"…Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light…"_

He was trying to make the kind of Christmas that would heal old wounds and turn us back into a family again, I knew that. Just the two of us, him and me, all alone in the insular little world of his apartment. A safe space away from everything and everyone else where we could put the pieces back together in private. It was like he had this perfect plan in his head about how he wanted it to go, right down to the smell and the taste and the feel of things. Meanwhile, the empty ache inside of him, that constant palpable background static of his loneliness and desperation, spiked like a charge in the air all around us as he sat curled on the couch cushion across from me, silently poking at the last of his meal and letting his thoughts wander.

I’d put that ache there.

That painful bit of knowledge twisted around my heart tight as a tourniquet, but still couldn’t staunch the bleeding. I’d thought he would heal if I just gave him enough time, and space, but somehow instead time had collapsed around us like a singularity. Our one unguarded moment had all come down to this.

I remember getting up then, to take my empty plate into the kitchen, mostly because I couldn’t bear to just keep sitting there watching him. He was so far away in his thoughts, or his memories, it was like he’d forgotten the real me was right there in front of him, with him in the here and now. His hair was hanging down hiding one side of his face, and he’d tilted his head like he was listening for a sound, for some perfect, long awaited sound, or the answer to a question. His brow furrowed gently and thoughtfully, and somehow with a will of its own, my hand reached out to softly touch that frown and tuck a strand of curls behind his ear. He was so beautiful, and so very alone with his pain.

As soon as he felt the brush of my finger tips on his cheek he looked up, and it was like a spell had broken. At the time, I’d felt a deep jolt of shame and shock, and didn’t know how I could have let myself… but, nowadays I know why these things used to happen and how my impulses would manage to get out ahead of me. Over time, I got much better at figuring out where the hidden dangers were, and now I see. It was because his guard had dropped while he was daydreaming. Once he’d let that happen, I could truly look at him, just like when he was asleep. While he was unaware, I could take in all of him with my eyes, without reserve and without our pretenses maintaining the distance between us. That was when, and only then. Any time I quit having to keep up my own defense. And in the voyeurism of the moment, I…

But, the moment passed. I was in control again.

I turned him down when he asked me, like he had the night before, to share his bed. We’d done our dishes, shut off the radio and unplugged the blinking, shimmering tree. The couch was cold, and light from the street below seeped in around the curtained windows. Each passing car sent a new misshapen shadow crawling across the ceiling, looming over me and robbing me of my sleep. Worse still were the monsters of my own guilt and memories shifting behind my eyelids, ghostly gray and overexposed. Down the hall I thought I heard the subtle click of a door latch -- like the sound of an afterthought. Closing, or opening, I could only imagine which. And after that, all I can remember now is the long, lonely emptiness and chilly expectancy of that interminably silent night.  
  
  
\---------

045/00

Alpha

I woke to the smell of fried onions blowing down the midway, or at least that’s what I’d been dreaming about. Gravel under my boots and the dry dust of a dirt track in my nostrils, hay bales on the infield and horse manure under a blinding white sun.

When I finally got my eyes completely open it was hot on the bus. Our air conditioning must have stopped working again. Shannon was already gone, I was guessing it was probably his shift on guard duty. He doesn’t do it too often, and he doesn’t always tell me when he does. In return, I try not to act distracted or worried while he’s doing it, and I work very hard at not second-guessing him the whole time. Because I know that kind of interference is an expression of my own anxiety and has nothing to do with his capabilities. Realistically, it’s not helping if I’m publicly projecting my concern for him, or seem to be questioning his judgment. And if I can’t manage that part of myself, I’m not doing either of us any good.

He knows what he’s doing.

He’d left coffee in the pot, an old habit for which I was grateful. All I had to do was heat it up in the microwave. It went down strong and bitter and slightly burnt tasting, and not unlike my early morning dream, full of memories. Right after I’d finished drinking it though, thoroughly awake and one hundred percent lucid, I could still swear I smelled those onions.

About fifteen minutes later, with a minimum of morning primping, I was strolling across the back lot on my way over to Guardhouse One. That’s when I noticed an odd-looking trailer parked across the way, right behind our recently acquired former office complex. We have families living there now. It’s not perfect yet, but we were able to install some showers in the basement once we got rid of all the file cabinets stored downstairs. Turned out there was a floor drain we could utilize for the water runoff. Not that I’m thrilled with the decision to send shower water into the storm sewer rather than the sanitary one, but a major excavating project involving the plumbing was out of the question. And basically, we’re looking at a similar solution for our situation on the bus. This is the reality about the state of civilization these days. It’s still disintegrating slowly and slipping backwards, one slightly unhygienic compromise at a time.

Meanwhile, Jack and his team of second-career miscreants have been stealing domestic furnishings from any and every place where they can pull up the truck and load it undisturbed. Eric has been adamant about the need for more personalizing touches to help restore everybody’s sense of "normal," and I’m not arguing with him about that, I don’t disagree. I just told him he could detail and decorate all he wanted to his heart’s content _after the bus remodel was finished._ I think I must have sounded a little impatient. But, I need for Shannon to have a sense of stability here, too, it’s important. I know this is nothing like what we had in Los Angeles, but I want my brother to feel like we still have a home together, the two of us. And not everything is regressing and falling apart.

It didn’t take me long to jog the short distance over to the building we’ve taken to calling the Annex.

I went alone, without telling anybody first, which I guess is a measure of how relaxed I must be feeling these days while safe within the boundaries of my own territory. Tactically speaking, I was never beyond the sightline of our Guardhouse. And Matt keeps at least one pair of armed security personnel on duty at the Annex every night after dark. We have our established protocols and routines. Lately, there have been men with guns patrolling my compound who are not members of my original tribe, or Ray. Proven, level-headed men with an investment in protecting their families here. Over time we’ve gotten to know each other, and built trust. The chain of command, however, remains my chain of command. Nothing about that has changed.

Matt greeted me with his sheepish grin as I approached the source of that carnival-esque onion aroma. "Steak-On-A-Stick" the colorful signs on the trailer declared loudly. Food Concessions, Curly Fries and Tropical Slushies. Only, what I was actually seeing was people sitting around outdoors at a couple of battered picnic tables with plates of steak and eggs. Kids drinking milk, and moms behind the trailer’s vending windows ladling up bowls of oatmeal and fruit.

"How ‘bout some breakfast?" Matt was offering earnestly, like he could end run the whole discussion of a stolen concession trailer by me while holding Belgian Waffles under my nose. Not very likely. I knew exactly where this damn thing had come from.

"So-o-o, this was the ‘salvage’ you were claiming?" I began. So far, I thought I was managing to control my voice modulation pretty well.

"Technically? No," Matt smiled at me amiably. "But it was sitting right there when we went to pick up the other stuff."

"What luck," I responded dryly. And so you helped yourselves. Well. "That was awfully convenient. Was your, uh, lieutenant there, too?" I’d walked over for a closer inspection while Matt trailed along behind me. On the outside, there were simple electrical and water hook-ups, and two propane tanks mounted by the hitch. Inside was a stainless steel and formica version of a miniature commercial kitchen, all very efficient.

"Can’t tell you, I’d have to kill you," Matt murmured with a conspiratorial grin, as if we were sharing a joke I was not even slightly in the mood for.

"Not if I kill you first," I replied pleasantly. "You fucking stole this from a government impound lot? Right out from under Grayson’s nose?"

"Well," Matt coughed, "when you put it that way…" At least he had the shame to hem and haw about it, considering the obviousness of his guilt. But, I noted, there still must be such a thing as honor among thieves. For some reason, Matt was not willing to implicate his inside man.

"Did it occur to you, you might have been being set up?" I demanded. From the tone of my voice, I’m pretty sure practically anyone could tell my irritation with the situation was finally getting the best of me. And Matt’s been with me longer than almost everybody, he knows how to gauge my moods.

"Yeah," he said, and suddenly he was dead serious. "It did."

Right up to that moment, I had always known without a shadow of doubt that, in the crunch, I could count on Matthew’s loyalty and dependability to eclipse his stubborn independent streak. Or so I’d thought, but now it seemed like something had changed. He shrugged at me and frowned in a way that implied he’d intentionally taken a decision and a calculated risk, all on his own and in full knowledge of the facts. Without telling me.

"Did you even think about consulting with me first?" My voice was practically a whisper and my register had dropped to a new low in direct proportion to my upset. Partly, I just didn’t want the others to hear us arguing.

Matt crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his stance, setting his feet a little farther apart. Digging himself in, from the way it looked. "Jared," he stated firmly, "there was more to the deal, if you’ll just let me tell you, but I was trying to keep you clear of it."

"You were what?" Wait a minute. Suddenly my brain had sort of frozen up. Wait just a goddamned second. I’d heard what he’d said alright, or most of it, but I got a little stuck on the part about keeping me _out of it_. Something was very wrong here. This did not sound at all like the kind of reasoning I’d come to expect from my Matthew. I mean, had someone been secretly transfusing our former bassist with my brother’s particular brand of logic and "ethics"? And for that matter, where the hell was Shannon? My eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Have you been exchanging bodily fluids with my brother?" I demanded quizzically. That didn’t come out sounding like exactly what I'd meant, but Jesus Christ, was everything and everybody I trusted suddenly free-lancing, out of control, and going fucking crazy?

"What? No!" The look of utter shock and confusion on Matt’s face suggested I’d just set our communication issues back a few more weeks, at least, with my choice of words. And yeah, there were still a few rough spots between us. Maybe that was part of the problem?

"Just, hold on a minute," he said, while waving his hands in my face. I watched him close his eyes and I could see him regrouping his thought processes, safe behind those eyelids where he didn’t have to look at me. "Okay. Jared," he said after a few seconds, "we can’t keep depending on the kitchen over at Mugs for everything." His eyes had flicked open, staring directly into mine. "Not with all these people here. The trailer just helps spread the strain on the system and gives us a back-up."

Alright. There was some truth to what he was saying, but that sure as hell didn’t account for the way he was going about things all of a sudden. "Sarah has her own kitchen in her private quarters," I said, doing a quick calculation. "And so do we, sort of." On the bus, or at least we will someday soon. "Then, there’s the kitchen at the farm…"

"That’s not even close to adequate for their needs up there," Matt shook his head. "The rest is just microwaves and coffee pots and basically fire hazards in every motel room. And on the days when the power is out…"

"People aren’t even able to prepare their own food safely," I finished his sentence for him. We'd tried resorting to lighting the communal fire pits, but we frequently had to forego that solution because of the airborne cinders that come from an open flame. It’s too risky in dry conditions, and our local fire-fighting capabilities are… we haven’t gotten to that yet. "But, at the diner we cook with propane." And now, we have this monstrosity. Elephant Ears and Onion Blossoms.

"Do you actually know how many people you’re providing for these days?" Matt was asking me.

"One hundred and thirty-one," I replied crisply. That was our current census, and it’s a hard number to forget when you’re the one responsible. Although to say I’m the one literally doing all the ‘providing for’ personally isn’t quite the whole truth and we both know it. Matt’s the one I usually saddle with that job, most of the time.

"One hundred and thirty-eight," he corrected me.

Oh?

"There was a set of, um, _conditions_ attached to the concession trailer," Matt continued. "Seven of them."

Great. So, this was how it happened, every time. The compassion exemption. It seemed that, without fail, all my authority and hardnosed rules of order would break like hollandaise in the face of a little desperate human need.

"Ah-hah, and who’s conditions would those be?" I asked, because if it was Grayson, it appeared he’d finally found my Achilles heel and was not above hanging me up by it. Matt raised an eyebrow at me in a meaningful way, and said nothing. Which wasn’t exactly an answer, but it basically told me everything I needed to know. Maybe he was still trying to preserve my delicate state of plausible deniability.

"Where did you put them?" I tried next.

"Well, that’s the tricky part," came his cryptic reply.

"Really? I thought Frank was the tricky part."

"Trev Westfall has them stashed in one of the abandoned house in town," was his answer. "Hiding out."

_Hiding out?_ "In Gabriel Crossing?" Technically, that’s Frank’s turf. And it’s not like Matt and Trev don’t know it. So, why didn’t Frank just ask -- or blackmail -- Trev Westfall if he needed a none-too-legal favor? Why risk involving Matt?

Logically, there’s really only one explanation. I was guessing all this high intrigue added up to Col. Grayson needing a deniability factor of his own for some reason, someone outside of his jurisdiction to take the fall, or... oh. God. Up until that moment, I’d been picturing the seven frightened faces of starving women and hollow-eyed children. But now…

"So, what kind of known felons am I aiding and abetting this time?" I asked him grimly. "And who’s looking for them?"

"Sacramento," Matt answered the second part of my question first. "That’s why we can’t keep them anywhere on the compound. And that’s ‘me’ aiding and abetting. Not you, Jared, and not ‘we.’"

For a moment I was utterly speechless and my mind was racing.

"Maybe you’d better tell me everything," I said to him finally. "Try starting at the beginning."

But, my old friend shook his head. In his eyes I saw stubborn refusal. "I can’t," he told me solemnly, and he wasn’t even making an attempt at an apology. "Jared, you’re just going to have to trust me on this one."

 

\--stop--


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Six "Quiet Desperation"  
> Author: Polydeuces  
> Summary: *Beyond the limits of Jared’s carefully constructed 30 Seconds to Mars universe, worlds are colliding.* (short chapter) Jared’s planning his next move. Shannon’s still being haunted by the ghosts of Christmases past.
> 
> note: this chapter unbeta-ed

_\--------- * ---------* ---------_  
_Try to let go of_  
_the truth…_  
  
_…the battles of_  
_your youth_  
_\--------- * --------- * ---------_

 

047/00

Alpha 

I trust Matt, I always have. And I want to go on trusting him. Even in the past, whenever we’ve had our differences, I’ve always known deep down we both want the same thing. What’s best for all of us.  
  
This recent breakdown in the chain of command, though, is testing me.  
  
There’s a pile of papers sitting on the front seat of the Rover’s passenger side. My side, where I’ll be sitting next to him. Fuel ration tickets, a copy of our Protectorate certification, more official-looking documents from the Aid Distribution Authority, and some handwritten notes I’ve made to myself. It’s our market day, or close enough, we're within our margin, and it's the first chance we’ve had to get restocked with a 30-day allotment of government flour and cooking oil, plus whatever else they’re offering this time. One of the townies told Sarah there was white hominy and powdered milk, and some people were getting rice. I won’t say no to anything, which is probably the best descriptive I can offer on the status of my learning curve when it comes to provisioning my people. Whatever it takes, by almost any means, pretty much everything is fair game, and I’ve been this way for a while now.  
  
In fact, I almost haggled away some rifle ammo for a promised share of venison not too long ago, but after a moment’s consideration I stopped myself. Only because I didn’t know the “hunters” well enough to think they wouldn’t turn around and shoot me with my own merchandise.  
  
And, most times we manage to squeak by. Last week, Shannon came home from escorting our gleaners to a recently harvested field in search of any remaining summer squash -- whatever had been overlooked: too small, too green, too damaged. Lo and behold, they’d met up with a local huckster who had avocados and lemons to trade. I thought I’d died and gone to guacamole heaven.  
  
Today, however, what I want most is land. Earth, fields, shelter, housing, property rights. I have no idea what it’s going to take, where I’ll have to go, or who I’ll have to fuck when I get there, but I want my people to have a clear claim to squatters’ rights on the farm. It’s our second home where we have our dormitory, and our alternate source of clean water. We store food there, it’s also our community medical clinic, and yeah, it’s our armory too. We need it. Firefox’s fertile soil and woods could be our future. And I do not want Braeburn County’s Devil in the Flesh, Chancellor Franklin, trying to annex it, or screw us out of it somehow with his pretenses at democratic process via this new village council.  
  
When I get around to sharing my agenda with Matt, his eyes flick over the collection of folders and documents I’ve placed on the front seat and he mutters, “Okay,” in a tone of voice that suggests no surprise whatsoever. A bit of indulgence, maybe, a small touch of frustration perhaps, and some foreboding, but he’s had time to figure out what I was thinking. This is our negotiated truce. I haven’t challenged him or questioned him any further on that black op he and Trev think they’re running in Gabriel Crossing. He’s not going to second guess me now.  
  
So, I’m off to Sacramento to dance with the Devil I don’t know. Not that I’m very happy about the prospect, because so far, I don’t know how much faith to have in the state of our fragile Protectorate’s union with the city authority.

 

 ----------

047/00

Beta 

On Christmas day, well, actually it was later that evening, I remember standing in Jared’s cramped apartment kitchen while he searched the radio dial looking for some tunes. Basically, he was trying to find whatever he could that wasn’t the sound of carols playing non-stop. The Bing Crosby, Perry Como, Mormon Tabernacle Choir thing had been fun for a while, but at a certain point during of our dinner preparations, my hair-flipping little brother started head banging like death metal to “Have A Holly Jolly Christmas,” and I knew all the silent night sentiment had worn out its welcome. 

Since this was Philadelphia, it didn’t take him too long to stumbled on a holiday resistant oldies station. _“…admit that the waters around you have grown, and accept it that soon you'll be drenched to the bone…”_  

Bob Dylan. _“…for the times, they are a cha-angin’”_ The sound of the music jumped right out at me, straight from our childhood like an emotional trigger. 

“When do you want to call Mom?” I asked, trying to suppress memories. I was up to my elbows in soapy water washing dishes, he’d been doing the drying. We needed to talk to both her and Gram and act like everything between us was totally normal. I also needed to let mom know when, exactly, to expect me since she was my next stop. I’d made plans to spend part of my holiday and New Years with her. In the pit of my stomach, I knew she was going to ask if Jared would be coming along, too, still hoping against hope. 

I put the last clean serving bowl to the side. “Before the pumpkin pie?” he suggested, watching as the dishwater drained from the sink. “I’ll call Mom first and then three-way Gram?” We were holding dessert because, ugh, I’d already eaten too much Christmas dinner. Plus, there had been Mueller’s dark chocolate anatomically correct “body parts” under the tree that morning, so we’d had an early start with the sweets. I gave him a kidney, which… old joke. He’d bought me a human heart. Yeah, subtle. When did we even pick that stuff up? The day before, on our shopping spree? I can’t remember now. 

“Before pie, or after, just not at the same time,” ‘Cause if Mom heard you eating while you were talking on the phone she’d be sure to tell you not to, it was rude. 

“Okay, but first there’s something I have to let you know.” Jared paused laying the dish towel on the counter. “Because I need to tell mom, and I want you to hear it first.” 

My heart kind of skipped a beat, but when I looked at him, his face was filled with excitement and anticipation and only a little apprehension. Nothing like fear or dread, or any sort of panic. Still, whatever he was about to say, a lot, it seemed, was riding on my reaction. 

“I’m thinking about transferring schools. To one in New York, and…” his eyes dropped down and he glanced away. Then he sucked in a short breath, “…changing my major.” 

Not study painting? “Okay.” That did not sound quite like the end of life as we knew it. Why all the drama? 

“I’d be giving up my scholarship money.” He sighed, introducing some reality into the situation. “And, changing my major would mean some of the courses I’ve already taken won’t count towards my new degree. So…” 

Right. The scholarship wasn’t a full ride. It didn’t pay for everything, but it sure helped with some things. Basically, he was saying making this decision would cost him more money _and_ more time. 

“So, what do you want to study?” 

“Filmmaking.” Well, I couldn’t say that came entirely out of left field. I could see it. “At first, I thought about switching to photography,” he continued, “last semester.” He paused for a second then I heard him drawing in another long breath through his nose, like an animal testing the wind. And I watched as his hands began moving distractedly in front of him, tracing his thoughts in the air. But then I also noticed he still wasn’t looking directly at me. Uh-oh. 

“That’s when I started to wonder about what it would really be like, you know, photography as an actual profession.” 

Mm-hm, I thought, finally seeing the reason for his hesitation. “And that,” I finished for him, “is how Wolfman Jack came into the picture.” 

Jared gaze flashed up and he nailed me with a defensive glare. “His name isn’t Jack,” he stated flatly. He did not, I noticed, deny the “wolfman” part. 

Undeterred, my brother turned his head and looked to the side and plunged ahead. “He works in New York sometimes, he has professional contacts.” Oh, really? ‘ _Professional’ contacts?_ Well, shit. To my ears that sounded more like a big red flag than the welcome news my brother seemed to think it should be. “He said he’d write me a letter of recommendation for my applications, and hook me up with some jobs if he could…” Nope, this son of a bitch wasn’t going away anytime soon. Suddenly Jared was staring at me openly again, his expression dark and his eyebrows scrunched together. “… _What!?_ ” he demanded. 

I swear, I had not made a single sound, not even said a word. Not that a few choice ones hadn’t occurred to me. But, I must have been scowling. Like, a face that could stop a train, I think is how Jared put it. 

Our eyes locked in a war of wills. Slowly my brother’s confrontational stare gave way to a kind of grave curiosity, then after a moment he blinked. His frown lifted. Strange, I thought I noticed the corners of his mouth twitch involuntarily, as if maybe he was withholding the hint of a smile. “Why do you hate him so much?” he asked. Jared, the ever inquisitive. “You don’t even know him.” 

“I don’t _hate_ …” I began to protest, then checked myself. I’d answered too quickly, too loudly, and even I didn’t believe myself. I loathed him, plain and simple. 

Jared cocked his head in silence, and then there was that hair flip again. Slowly his smile widened like a Cheshire cat’s. “You’re so cute when you’re jealous,” he purred, his eyes were twinkling and he laughed at me softly. 

Something south of my belly-button fluttered plaintively and in an instant my flash of panic spilled out at him in anger. “Fuck you. Jared, goddammit!” Not my most articulate comeback ever, but oh, sweet Lord Jesus. If that was the look he’d been treating Not-Jack to, I probably should have been more worried more about the Wolfman’s well-being than the other way around. Suddenly I was drowning. I could hear the shadow of our southern upbringing in my outburst, giving away all my secrets. I sounded like one of our uncles swearing, with his head bowed under the hood of his old Ford pick-up. I sounded like some other time and place. 

If only there’d been an honest way for me to leave all that behind… 

“You know, getting a little work in New York might be nice,” the sound of Jared’s voice stopped my wilder thoughts in their tracks. “I’m going to have to start applying for student aid all over again. Are you going to be this suspicious of my academic advisor too, if he helps me out with my applications?” 

“Maybe,” I grumbled unreasonably. I wasn’t in the mood to give him an inch. I couldn’t afford to. At that moment, my resentment was my only refuge. 

Jared pressed his lips together, a sure sign he was holding something back. “Anyway,” he said finally, “after I thought about it some more, I realized filmmaking was what I really wanted.” 

I nodded, and let out a breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding. He kept staring at me steadily, watching me without blinking. For just an instant, I imagined I saw the ghost of something old and painful passing behind those cool blue eyes of his. Actually, no, that’s a lie I’ve been telling myself for almost two decades now. I knew I saw it, and I knew exactly what it was, too. 

“I’m going to call Mom,” he said as he turned away. 

I don’t remember much about that phone call except us putting our heads together so we could both listen and speak into the one telephone in the apartment, and trying to keep the conversation cheerful. Working at it, light and happy. See? We’re all good here. Not to worry. How are you? How’s everything? Are you having a happy holiday? May your days be merry and bright. 

Not that it was like we had to lie to them, Mom and Gram. Our family wasn’t quite _that_ broken. We shared. Well, most things. But, sometimes you just need a safe space to be in, you know? Like, a safe and trusting relationship with someone where you don’t have to be anything except who the other person thinks you are. For years, Jared and I had been conspiring to keep that kind of innocent connection with our mother and grandmother. Ever since we were teenagers and our worlds started falling apart, and then together. For sure Gram had always been our one, unquestionably safe place. And that particular Christmas, there was absolutely nothing about the situation we wanted to alter. 

Although it may have seemed at the time like we were trying to protect them, the truth I suppose was more like we were protecting ourselves. 

Towards the end of the call, Jared spent a few minutes talking to our mom privately which I didn’t resent since I was the one who was going to be spending actual face time with her over New Years, and he wasn’t. The radio was still playing quietly in the background. _“...teach your children well, their father’s hell did slowly go by...”_ Since I didn’t want him to think I was deliberately eavesdropping, I directed my attention to shutting it off, and then wiping down an already clean counter before turning off the light over the sink. 

To tell the truth, Jared didn’t say much. He mostly listened. I watched him bow his head and grip the receiver tightly to his ear as he perched on one of the bar stools next to the kitchen counter. He shifted restlessly, pulling one knee up to his chest and resting his heel on the seat. The sound of Mom’s voice hummed in the near silence, I could just barely hear it, not enough to make out any words, though. Jared “uh-huh”’d softly into the phone a couple of times, and curled in on himself. 

He looked miserable. 

“I promise,” he whispered. “I won’t.” 

His voice sounded tight, like tears were close but still just beyond the point of falling. Right before he hung up he said, “I’ll do my best.” And that was the end of the call. He never did tell her about changing his major. 

That morning I’d given him the one last thing I’d brought along to give him as a gift. I’d been thinking about saving it for his birthday, but it was just an old cassette tape, and something I knew he’d already heard before. So, in the end I decided since it was nothing new, like an actual present, I’d just give it to him to have for himself. 

In fact, it was a couple of recordings from when we were children. Old stuff going way back to when we were really little, and then later as we grew. Years ago, I’d dubbed them onto a cassette for myself from Mom’s old reel-to-reel originals. It was one of the few possessions I took with me when I’d left home that first time, and I’d kept it with me always. Sometimes, whenever the distance between us got unbearable, I would listen to it. Like, harsh comfort, but the best I could do. And it would help a little. 

So, I’d made a copy for him. He popped it into a tape deck in the living room that belonged to one of his roommates, and sat smiling softly at the raucous sounds of our childhood filling the air. An early attempt at songwriting made him wince at the lyrics. 

“What, they’re cute,” I grinned at him. Painful, was more like it, he’d responded. A rising scale of “ _Oh-oh-ooooo”_ ’s drowned in the scruffy buzz of old analog and the pounding of drums. There was a part we both tried to sing along to, laughing and groaning over the passage of years. 

When the tape ended, Jared eyes were shining just a little too bright. Mom, he said, had told him not to let Shannon go off and leave again. That’s what he promised her. And I knew in my soul if there was any fucking way, any bargain he could strike between the powers of Hell and Heaven to keep that from happening, my brother would absolutely make that deal. 

Looking back, I guess giving him the cassette was my way of trying to say I’d kept the faith. I hadn’t lost it. I just didn’t have a goddamn clue what to do with it. I was still running.

\-- stop --  


End file.
